Mrs. Judson is still better known under her nom de plume of Fanny Forester. In 1846 she married the missionary, Mr. Judson, and accompanied him to Burmah. Two years before her marriage she published a poem in four cantos, called Astaroga, or the Maid of the Rock. As a specimen of her poetical style we subjoin her verses, My Bird, on the birth of a child in Jan. 1848, at Maulmain, in India:

Ere last year's moon had left the sky,
A birdling sought my Indian nest,

And folded, oh! so lovingly,

Its tiny wings upon my breast.

From morn till evening's purple tinge,
In winsome helplessness she lies;
Two rose-leaves, with a silken fringe,
Shut softly on her starry eyes.

There's not in Ind a lovelier bird;

Broad earth owns not a happier nest;
O God, thou hast a fountain stirred,
Whose waters never more shall rest!

This beautiful, mysterious thing,
This seeming visitant from Heaven,
This bird with the immortal wing
To me

to me, thy hand has given.

The pulse first caught its tiny stroke,
The blood its crimson hue, from mine:
This life, which I have dared invoke,
Henceforth is parallel with thine!

A silent awe is in my room

I tremble with delicious fear;
The future, with its light and gloom,
Time and eternity are here.

Doubts, hopes, in eager tumults rise;
Hear, O my God! one earnest prayer:

Room for my bird in paradise,

And give her angel-plumage there!

Charles Sprague.

Mr. Sprague has been called "the American Pope,' and in fact, both in his odes and his satires we may find much to remind us of the poet of Twickenham. He was born at Boston in 1791, and was for several years cashier in the Globe Bank in that city. The pungent satirist is a man of warm affections, so strongly attached to his family and. his friends, that he has seldom been able to leave them for even a brief absence. Besides his fine Ode on Shakespeare, his minor poems, the Brothers, I see thee still, the Family Meeting, and other poems and odes, he has written a satire, entitled Curiosity, in which he more especially lashes that pedantic school of critics, who, blind to the beauties of an author, are constantly hunting for obscure and insignificant allusions to annotate and explain. On this subject he writes:

How swells my theme! how vain my power I find,
To track the windings of the curious mind;
Let aught be hid, though useless, nothing boots,
Straightway it must be plucked up by the roots.
How oft we lay the volume down to ask
Of him, the victim in the Iron Mask;

The crusted metal rub with painful care
To spell the legend out that is not there;
With dubious gaze o'er mossgrown tombstones bend
To find a name the heralds never penned;
Dig through the lava-deluged city's breast,
Learn all we can, and wisely guess the rest;
Ancient or modern, sacred or profane,

All must be known, and all obscure made plain;
If 'twas a pippin tempted Eve to sin;

If glorious Byron drugged his Muse with gin;
If Troy e'er stood; if Shakespeare stole a deer;

If Israel's missing tribes found refuge here.')

We add one of his domestic pieces, and one of his odes:

When, from the sacred garden driven
Man fled before his Maker's wrath,

An angel left her place in heaven,

And crossed the wanderer's sunless path.

*) Alluding to a theory, that the American Indians are the descendants of the ten lost tribes of Israel.

"Twas Art! sweet Art! new radiance broke
Where her light foot flew o'er the ground;
And thus with seraph voice she spoke,

"The Curse a Blessing shall be found.”

She led him through the trackless wild,
Where noontide sunbeam never blazed;
The thistle shrunk, the harvest smiled,
And Nature gladdened, as she gazed.
Earth's thousand tribes of living things
At Art's command, to him are given;
The village grows, the city springs,
And point their spires of faith to heaven.
He rends the oak, and bids it ride,

To guard the shores its beauty graced;
He smites the rock, upheaved in pride,
See towers of strength and domes of taste.
Earth's teeming caves their wealth reveal,
Fire bears his banner on the wave,
He bids the mortal poison heal,

And leaps triumphant o'er the grave.

He plucks the pearls that stud the deep,
Admiring Beauty's lap to fill;

He breaks the stubborn marble's sleep,
And imitates creating skill.

With thoughts that swell his glowing soul,
He bids the ore illume the page,
And proudly scorning Time's control,
Converses with an unborn age.

In fields of air he writes his name,

And treads the chambers of the sky;
He reads the stars, and grasps the flame,
That quivers round the Throne on high.
In war renowned, in peace sublime,

He moves in greatness and in grace;
His power, subduing space and time,
Links realm to realm, and race to race.

J. G. Whittier.

John Greenleaf Whittier, the New-England quakerpoet and moralist, born in 1807, has written Mogg Megone, a story in verse of the struggles of the early settlers with hostile Indian tribes; Maud Müller, a sad but very popular poem, and a vast number of short

poems and verses on the Secession War and other public events. His lines on the great fire in Chicago (Oct. 8, 1871) are, we think, among his best:

Men said at vespers: "All is well!"
In one wild night the city fell;

Fell shrines of prayer and marts of grain
Before the fiery hurricane.

On three score spires had sunset shone,
Where ghastly sunrise looked on none,
Men clasped each other's hands, and said:
"The City of the West is dead!"

Brave hearts who fought, in slow retreat,
The fiends of fire from street to street,
Turned, powerless, to the blinding glare,
The dumb defiance of despair.

A sudden impulse thrilled each wire
That signalled round that sea of fire;

Swift words of cheer, warm heart-throbs came;
In tears of pity died the flame!

From East, from West, from South and North,

The messages of hope shot forth,

And, underneath the severing wave,

The world, full-handed, reached to save.

Rise, stricken city! from thee throw
The ashen sackcloth of thy woe;
And build, as to Amphion's strain,
To songs of cheer thy walls again!

How shrivelled in thy hot distress
The primal sin of selfishness;
How instant rose, to take thy part,
The angel in the human heart!

Ah! not in vain the flames that tossed

Above thy dreadful holocaust.

The Christ again has preached through thee

The Gospel of Humanity!

Then lift once more thy towers on high,

And fret with spires the western sky,

To tell that God is yet with us,
And love is still miraculous!