Neal, the author of the Charcoal Sketches. Upon his death, a few months afterwards, she took charge of the literary department of Neal's Gazette, of which her husband had been a proprietor, and conducted it for several years with ability. Her articles, poems, tales, and sketches, appeared frequently during this time in the leading monthly magazines. A volume from her pen, The Go8sips of Rivertown, with Sketches in Prose and Verse, was published in 1850. The main story is an illustration of the old village propensity of scandal, along with which the traits and manners of country life are exhibited in a genial, humorous way. Mrs. Haven is also the author of a series of juvenile works, published under the name of "Cousin Alice." They are stories written to illustrate various proverbial moralities, and are in a happy vein of dialogue and description, pervaded by an unobtrusive religious feeling. They are entitled, Helen Morton's Trial; No Such Word as Fail; Contentment better than Wealth; Patient Waiting No Loss; All's not Gold that Glitters, or the Young Californian, etc.

In 1853 Mrs. Neal was married to Mr. Samuel L. Haven, and has since resided at Mamaroneck, Westchester county, New York.

TREES IN THE CITY.

"Tis beautiful to see a forest stand,

Brave with its moss-grown monarchs and the pride Of foliage dense, to which the south wind bland Comes with a kiss, as lover to his bride; To watch the light grow fainter, as it streams Through arching aisles, where branches interlace, Where sombre pines rise o'er the shadowy gleams Of silver birch, trembling with modest grace. But they who dwell beside the stream and hill, Prize little treasures there so kindly given; The song of birds, the babbling of the rill,

The pure unclouded light and air of heaven. They walk as those who seeing cannot see, Blind to this beauty even from their birth, We value little blessings ever free,

We covet most the rarest things of earth.
But rising from the dust of busy streets,

These forest children gladden many hearts;
As some old friend their welcome presence greets
The toil-worn soul, and fresher life imparts.
Their shade is doubly grateful when it lies

Above the glare which stifling walls throw back,
Through quivering leaves we see the soft blue skies,
Then happier tread the dull, unvaried track.
And when the first fresh foliage, emerald-hued,
Is opening slowly to the sun's glad beams,
How it recalleth scenes we once have viewed,

And childhood's fair but long-forgotten dreams! The gushing spring, with violets clustering roundThe dell where twin flowers trembled in the breeze

The fairy visions wakened by the sound

Of evening winds that sighed among the trees. There is a language given to the flowers

To me, the trees "dumb oracles" have been;
As waving softly, fresh from summer showers,
Their whisper to the heart will entrance win.
Do they not teach us purity may live

Amid the crowded haunts of sin and shame,
And over all a soothing influence give-
Sad hearts from fear and sorrow oft reclaim?
And though transferred to uncongenial soil,
Perchance to breathe alone the dusty air,

Burdened with sounds of never-ceasing toil-
They rise as in the forest free and fair;
They do not droop and pine at adverse fate,
Or wonder why their lot should lonely prove,
But give fresh life to hearts left desolate,
Fit emblems of a pure, unselfish love.

THE CHURCH.

I will show thee the bride, the Lamb's wife.-REV. xxi. 9. Clad in a robe of pure and spotless white,

The youthful bride with timid step comes forth To greet the hand to which she plights her troth, Her soft eyes radiant with a strange delight. The snowy veil which circles her around

Shades the sweet face from every gazer's eye, And thus enwrapt, she passes calmly byNor casts a look but on the unconscious ground. So should the Church, the bride elect of Heaven,Remembering Whom she goeth forth to meet, And with a truth that cannot brook deceit Holding the faith, which unto her is givenPass through this world, which claims her for a while,

Nor cast about her longing look, nor smile.

CATHERINE WARFIELD-ELEANOR LEE, "Two Sisters of the West," as they appeared on the title-page of a joint volume, The Wife of Leon and Other Poems, published in New York in 1843, are the daughters of the Hon. Nathaniel Ware, of Mississippi, and were born near the city of Natchez. Miss Catherine Ware was married to Mr. Warfield of Lexington, Kentucky; Miss Eleanor to Mr. Lee of Vicksburg. A second volume of their joint contribution, The Indian Chamber and Other Poems, appeared in 1846. The part taken by either author in the volumes is not distinguished. The poems in ballad, narrative, and reflection, exhibit a ready command of poetic language, and a prompt susceptibility to poetic impressions. They have had a wide popularity.

I WALK IN DREAMS OF POETRY.

I walk in dreams of poetry;
They compass me around;

I hear a low and startling voice
In every passing sound;

I meet in every gleaming star,
On which at eve I gaze,
A deep and glorious eye, to fill
My soul with burning rays.
I walk in dreams of poetry;
The very air I breathe

Is filled with visions wild and free,
That round my spirit wreathe;
A shade, a sigh, a floating cloud,
A low and whispered tone-
These have a language to my brain,
A language deep and lone.

I walk in dreams of poetry,
And in my spirit bow
Unto a lone and distant shrine,

That none around me know,

From every heath and hill I bring

A garland rich and rare,

Of flowery thought and murmuring sigh,
To wreathe mine altar fair.

I walk in dreams of poetry:
Strange spells are on me shed;
I have a world within my soul
Where no one else may tread-

A deep and wide-spread universe,
Where spirit-sound and sight
Mine inward vision ever greet

With fair and radiant light.

My footsteps tread the earth below,
While soars my soul to heaven:
Small is my portion here-yet there
Bright realms to me are given.
I clasp my kindred's greeting hands,
Walk calmly by their side,
And yet I feel between us stands
A barrier deep and wide.

I watch their deep and household joy
Around the evening hearth,

When the children stand beside each knee
With laugh and shout of mirth.

but oh! I feel unto my soul

A deeper joy is brought

To rush with eagle wings and strong,
Up in a heaven of thought.

I watch them in their sorrowing hours,
When, with their spirits tossed,

I hear them wail with bitter cries
Their earthly prospects crossed;
I feel that I have sorrows wild
In my heart buried deep-
Immortal griefs that none may share
With me-nor eyes can weep.
And strange it is: I cannot say
If it is wo or weal,

That thus unto my heart can flow
Fountains so few may feel;
The gift that can my spirit raise
The cold, dark earth above,
Has flung a bar between my soul
And many a heart I love.
Yet I walk in dreams of poetry,

And would not change that path,
Though on it from a darkened sky
Were poured a tempest's wrath.

Its flowers are mine, its deathless blooms,
I know not yet the thorn;

I dream not of the evening glooms
In this my radiant morn.

Oh! still in dreams of poetry,
Let me for ever tread,

With earth a temple, where divine,
Bright oracles are shed:
They soften down the earthly ills
From which they cannot save;
They make a romance of our life;
They glorify the grave.

SHE COMES TO ME.

She comes to me in robes of snow, The friend of all my sinless years— Even as I saw her long ago,

Before she left this vale of tears. She comes to me in robes of snowShe walks the chambers of my rest, With soundless footsteps sad and slow, That wake no echo in my breast.

I see her in my visions yet,

I see her in my waking hours; Upon her pale, pure brow is set

A crown of azure hyacinth flowers. Her golden hair waves round her face, And o'er her shoulders gently falls: Each ringlet hath the nameless grace My spirit yet on earth recalls.

And, bending o'er my lowly bed,
She murmurs "Oh, fear not to die!— ' }
For thee an angel's tears are shed,

An angel's feast is spread on high.
"Come, then, and meet the joy divine
That features of the spirits wear:
A fleeting pleasure here is thine-
An angel's crown awaits thee the: c.
"Listen! it is a choral hymn "-

And, gliding softly from my couch, Her spirit-face waxed faint and dim,

Her white robes vanished at my touch. She leaves me with her robes of snowHushed is the voice that used to thrill Around the couch of pain and wo

She leaves me to my darkness still.

SARAH S. JACOBS,

A LADY of Rhode Island, the daughter of a Baptist clergyman, the late Rev. Bela Jacobs, is remarkable for her learning and cultivation. She has of late resided at Cambridgeport, Mass. There has been no collection of her writings, except the few poems which have been brought together in Dr. Griswold's Female Poets of America.

BENEDETTA.

By an old fountain once at day's decline
We stood. The wingéd breezes made
Short flights melodious through the lowering vine,
The lindens flung a golden, glimmering shade,
And the old fountain played.

I a stern stranger-a sweet maiden she,
And beautiful as her own Italy.

At length she smiled; her smile the silence broke,

And my heart finding language thus it spoke:

Whenever Benedetta moves,

Motion then all Nature loves,

When Benedetta is at rest,

Quietness appeareth best.

She makes me dream of pleasant things,

Of the young corn growing;

Of butterflies' transparent wings
In the sunbeams rowing;

Of the summer dawn
Into daylight sliding;
Of Dian's favorite fawn
Among laurels hiding;
Of a movement in the tops

Of the most impulsive trees;
Of cool, glittering drops

God's gracious rainbow sees;
Of pale moons; of saints
Chanting anthems holy;
Of a cloud that faints
In evening slowly;
Of a bird's song in a grove,
Of a rosebud's love;
Of a lily's stem and leaf,

Of dew-silvered meadows;
Of a child's first grief;

Of soft-floating shadows; Of the violet's breath

To the moist wind given; Of early death

And heaven."

I ceased: the maiden did not stir,

Nor speak, nor raise her bended head; And the green vines enfoliaged her, And the old fountain played. Then from the church beyond the trees

Chimed the bells to evening prayer:

Fervent the devotions were

Of Benedetta on her knees;

And when her prayer was over,

A most spiritual air

Her whole form invested,

As if God did love her,

And his smile still rested
On her white robe and flesh,
So innocent and fresh-
Touching where'er it fell
With a glory visible.

She smiled, and crossed herself, and smiled again
Upon the heretic's sincere " Amen !"
"Buona notte," soft she said or sung-

It was the same on that sweet southern tongueAnd passed. I blessed the faultless face,

All in composed gentleness arrayed; Then took farewell of the secluded place;

And the tall lindens flung a glimmering shade
And the old fountain played.

And this was spring. In the autumnal weather,
One golden afternoon I wandered thither;
And to the vineyards, as I passed along,
Murmured this fragment of a broken song:

"

I know a peasant girl serene

What though her home doth lowly lie!
The woods do homage to their queen,
The streams flow reverently nigh
Benedetta, Benedetta!

"Her eyes, the deep, delicious blue

The stars and I love to look through;
Her voice the low, bewildering tone,
Soft winds and she have made their own
Benedetta, Benedetta!"

She was not by the fountain--but a band
Of the fair daughters of that sunny land.
Weeping they were, and as they wept they threw
Flowers on a grave. Then suddenly I knew

Of Benedetta dead: And weeping too,

O'er beauty perished,

Awhile with her companions there I stood, Then turned and went back to my solitude; And the tall lindens flung a glimmering shade, And the old fountain played.

ELIZABETH C. KINNEY.

MRS. ELIZABETH C. KINNEY is a native of New York, the daughter of Mr. David L. Dodge, a mnerchant of the city. She is married to Mr. William B. Kinney, editor of the Newark Daily Advertiser, where, as well as in the magazines and literary journals of the day, many of her poetic compositions have appeared. In 1850, she accompanied her husband on his mission as Chargé d'Affaires to Sardinia. A fruit of her residence abroad has been a narrative poem entitled Felicita, a Metrical Romance; the story of a lady sold into Moorish captivity by her father, who is rescued by a slave; and after having passed through a sorrowful love adventure, dies in a convent. The numerous occasional poems of Mrs. Kinney have not been collected.

THE SPIRIT OF SONG.

Eternal Fame! thy great rewards, Throughout all time, shall be

The right of those old master bards Of Greece and Italy;

And of fair Albion's favored isle,
Where Poesy's celestial smile

Hath shone for ages, gilding bright
Her rocky cliffs and ancient towers,
And cheering this New World of ours
With a reflected light.

Yet, though there be no path untrod
By that immortal race-

Who walked with Nature as with God,
And saw her face to face-
No living truth by them unsung,
No thought that hath not found a tongue
In some strong lyre of olden time-
Must every tuneful lute be still
That may not give the world a thrill
Of their great harp sublime?
Oh, not while beating hearts rejoice
In music's simplest tone,
And hear in Nature's every voice

An echo to their own!
Not till these scorn the little rill
That runs rejoicing from the hill,

Or the soft, melancholy glide Of some deep stream through glen and glade, Because 'tis not the thunder made

By ocean's heaving tide!

The hallowed lilies of the field

In glory are arrayed,

And timid, blue-eyed violets yield
Their fragrance to the shade;
Nor do the wayside flowers conceal
Those modest charms that sometimes steal
Upon the weary traveller's eyes
Like angels, spreading for his feet
A carpet, filled with odors sweet,

And decked with heavenly dyes.
Thus let the affluent soul of Song-
That all with flowers adorns-
Strew life's uneven path along,

And hide its thousand thorns:
Oh, many a sad and weary heart,
That treads a noiseless way apart,

Has blessed the humble poet's name
For fellowship, refined and free,
In meek wild-flowers of poesy,
That asked no higher fame!
And pleasant as the waterfall
To one by deserts bound,
Making the air all musical

With cool, inviting sound-
Is oft some unpretending strain
Of rural song, to him whose brain
Is fevered in the sordid strife
That Avarice breeds 'twixt man and man,
While moving on, in caravan,

Across the sands of Life.

Yet not for these alone he sings:

The poet's breast is stirred
As by the spirit that takes wings
And carols in the bird!

He thinks not of a future name,
Nor whence his inspiration came,
Nor whither goes his warbled song:

As Joy itself delights in joy,
His soul finds lie in its employ,
And grows by utterance strong.

age. Her early years were passed at Rochester, New York. Her father afterwards removed to New Brighton, a picturesquely situated village in Beaver Co., Western Pennsylvania, where she has since chiefly resided. In 1853 she was married to Mr. Lippincott, of Philadelphia.

Grace Greenword

Two series of Greenwood Leaves, portions of which were originally contributed as letters to the New Mirror of Messrs. Morris and Willis, have been published in Boston by Messrs. Ticknor and Co., who also issued a volume of the author's Poetical Works in 1851. Mrs. Lippincott has also published Haps and Mishaps of a Tour in Europe, including an enthusiastic account of numerous European friends of the author, and several juvenile books, History of My Pets, Recollections of My Childhood and Merrie England. The prose writings of "Grace Greenwood" are animated by a hearty spirit of out-of-door life and enjoyment, and a healthy, sprightly view of society. Her poems are the expressions of a prompt, generous nature.

ARIADNE.

[The demi-god, Theseus, having won the love of Ariadne, daughter of the king of Crete, deserted her on the isle of Naxos. In Miss Bremer's "H-Family," the blind girl is described as singing," Ariadne à Naxos," in which Ariadne is represented as following Thesens, climbing a high rock to watch his departing vessel, and calling on him in her despair. ing anguish.]

Daughter of Crete, how one brief hour,

Ere in thy young love's early morn,
Sends storm and darkness o'er thy bower-
Oh doomed, oh desolate, oh lorn!
The breast which pillowed thy fair head
Rejects its burden--and the eye
Which looked its love so earnestly,
Its last cold glance hath on thee shed-
The arms which were thy living zone,
Around thee closely, warmly thrown,
Shall others clasp, deserted one!

Yet, Ariadne, worthy thou

Of the dark fate which meets thee now,
For thou art grovelling in thy woe-
Arouse thee! joy to bid him go.
For god above, or man below,
Whose love's warm and impetuous tide
Cold interest or selfish pride
Can chill, or stay, or turn aside,
Is all too poor and mean a thing
One shade o'er woman's brow to fling

Of grief, regret, or fear.

To cloud one morning's rosy light,
Disturb the sweet dreams of one night,
To cause the soft lash of her eye
To droop one moment mournfully,
Or tremble with one tear!

'Tis thou should'st triumph-thou art free
From chains that bound thee for awhile-
This, this the farewell meet for thee,
Proud princess, on that lonely isle!

"Go, to thine Athens bear thy faithless name!
Go, base betrayer of a holy trust!
Oh, I could bow me in my utter shame,
And lay my crimson forehead in the dust,
If I had ever loved thee as thou art,
Folding mean falsehood to my high, true heart!
But thus I loved thee not. Before me bowed
A being glorious in majestic pride
And breathed his love, and passionately vowed
To worship only me, his peerless bride;
And this was thou, but crowned, enrobed, entwined.
With treasures borrowed from my own rich mind.

I knew thee not a creature of my dreams, And my rapt soul went floating into thine; My love around thee poured such halo beams Had'st thou been true had made thee all divine And I, too, seemed immortal in my bliss, When my glad lip thrilled to thy burning kiss. "Shrunken and shrivelled into Theseus now

Thou stand'st-the gods have blown away The airy crown which glittered on thy brow,

The gorgeous robes which wrapt thee for a day. Around thee scarce one fluttering fragment clings, A poor, lean beggar in all glorious things! "Nor will I deign to cast on thee my hate

It were a ray to tinge with splendour still The dull, dim twilight of thy after fate

Thou shalt pass from me like a dream of ill, Thy name be but a thing that crouching stole, Like a poor thief, all noiseless from my soul! "Though thou hast dared to steal the sacred flame From out that soul's high heaven, she sets the free,

Or only chains thee with thy sounding shame-
Her memory is no Caucasus for thee!
And even her hovering hate would o'er thee flig
Too much of glory from its shadowy wing!
"Thou think'st to leave my life a lonely night-

Ha, it is night all glorious with its stars!
Hopes yet unclouded beaming forth their light,
And free thoughts welling in their silver cars,
And queenly pride, serene, and cold, and high,
Moves the Diana of its calm, clear sky.
"If poor and humble thou believest me,
Mole of a demi-god, how blind art thou!
For I am rich in scorn to pour on thee,

And gods shall bend from high Olympus' brow,
And gaze in wonder on my lofty pride-
Naxos be hallowed, I be deified!""

On the tall cliff, where cold and pale,
Thou watchest his receding sail,

Where thou, the daughter of a king,
Wail'st like a breaking wind-harp's string—
Bend'st like a weak and wilted flower,
Before a summer evening's shower;
There should'st rear thy royal form
Like a young oak amid the storm

Uncrushed, unbowed, unriven!

Let thy last glance burn through the air,
And fall far down upon him there,

Like lightning stroke from heaven!
There should'st thou mark o'er billowy crest,
His white sail flutter and depart;
No wild fears surging at thy breast,

No vain hopes quivering round thy heart! And this brief, burning prayer alone, Leap from thy lips to Jove's high throne: "Just Jove, thy wrathful vengeance stay, And speed the traitor on his way! Make vain the siren's silver song, Let nereids smile the wave along! O'er the wild waters send his barque, Like a swift arrow to its mark! Let whirlwinds gather at his back, And drive him on his dastard track! Let thy red bolts behind him burn, And blast him should he dare to turn!"

ALICE CAREY-PHEBE CAREY.

ALICE CAREY was born in Mount Healthy, near Cincinnati, in 1822. She first attracted notice as a writer by a series of sketches of rural life in the National Era, with the signature of Patty Lee. In 1850 she published, with her younger sister Phebe, a volume of Poems at Philadelphia.

A volume of prose sketches-Clovernook, or Recollections of Our Neighborhood in the Westfollowed in 1851. A second series of these pleasant papers appeared in 1853. A third gleaning from the same field, for the benefit of more youthful readers, was made in 1855 in Clover nook Children. Lyra, and Other Poems, was published in 1852; followed by Laar, a Story of To-day, in 1853. She has since published two other stories-Married, not Mated, and Hollywood-and a new collection of Poems in 1855.

Miss Alice Carey has rapidly attained a deservedly high position. Her poems are thoughtful, forcible, and melodiously expressed. In common with her prose writings, they are drawn from her own observation of life and nature.

PICTURES OF MEMORY.

Among the beautiful pictures
That hang on Memory's wall,
Is one of a dim old forest,

That seemeth best of all:

Not for its gnarled oaks olden,

Dark with the mistletoe;

Not for the violets golden

That sprinkle the vale below;
Not for the milk-white lilies

That lean from the fragrant hedge,
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,
And stealing their golden edge;
Not for the vines on the upland

Where the bright red berries rest,

Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip,

It seemeth to me the best.

I once had a little brother,

With eyes that were dark and deep-
In the lap of that old dim forest
He lieth in peace asleep:

Light as the down of the thistle,
Free as the winds that blow,
We roved there the beautiful summers
The summers of long ago;

But his feet on the hills grew weary,
And, one of the autumn eves,
I made for my little brother
A bed of the yellow leaves.
Sweetly his pale arms folded

My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face:
And when the arrows of sunset
Lodged in the tree-tops bright,
He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
Asleep by the gates of light.
Therefore, of all the pictures

That hang on Memory's wall,
The one of the dim old forest
Seemeth the best of all.

MULBERRY HILL

Oh, sweet was the eve when I came from the mill,
Adown the green windings of Mulberry Hill:
My heart like a bird with its throat all in tune,
That sings in the beautiful bosom of June.
For there, at her spinning, beneath a broad tree,
By a rivulet shining and blue as the sea,
I first saw my Mary-her tiny feet bare,
And the buds of the sumach among her black hair.
They called me a bold enough youth, and I would
Have kept the name honestly earned, if I could;
But, somehow, the song I had whistled was hushed,
And, spite of my manhood, I felt that I blushed.

I would tell you, but words cannot paint my delight,

When she gave the red buds for a garland of white, When her cheek with soft blushes-but no, 'tis in vain!

Enough that I loved, and she loved me again.

Three summers have come and gone by with their charms,

And a cherub of purity smiles in my arms,
With lips like the rosebud and locks softly light
As the flax which my Mary was spinning that night.
And in the dark shadows of Mulberry Hill,
By the grass-covered road where I came from the
mill,

And the rivulet shining and blue as the sea,
My Mary lies sleeping beneath the broad tree.

NOBILITY.

Hilda is a lofty lady,

Very proud is she

I am but a simple herdsman
Dwelling by the sea.

Hilda hath a spacious palace,

Broad, and white, and high;

Twenty good dogs guard the portal→ Never house had I.

Hilda hath a thousand meadows

Boundless forest lands:

She hath men and maids for service

I have but my hands.

The sweet summer's ripest rosca
Hilda's cheeks outvie-

Queens have paled to see her beauty-
But my beard have I.

Hilda from her palace windows

Looketh down on me,

Keeping with my dove-brown oxen
By the silver sea.