That was so exquisitely pure, the dew The melting of a star into the sky While you are gazing on it, or a dream In its most ravishing sweetness rudely broken." (2.) MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY, of Connecticut: born in 1797. Her poetical productions are very numerous. Her contributions to periodical works are very frequent, and, in general, excellent; always so in respect to their religious spirit and tendency. She deserves the gratitude of her age for her numerous writings, both in prose and poetry. Among the former stand high in public favor her "Letters to Young Ladies." In her elegant work, "Pleasant Memoirs of Pleasant Lands," published since her recent visit to England, we find the following notice of the poet Southey, whom she declined going to see on account of his mental derangement : I thought to see thee in thy lake-girt home, Thou of creative soul! I thought with thee Amid thy mountain solitudes to roam, And hear the voice whose echoes, wild and free," Had strangely thrill'd me, when my life was new, Sat on the lip, in fond, familiar word, Nor through the speaking eye her love repaid, Whose heart for thee with ceaseless care is stirr'd, Both night and day; upon her willow shade Her sweet harp hung. They told me, and I wept, As on my pilgrim way o'er England's vales I kept." A fine critic in the "North American Review" of 1835, bears the following just tribute to Mrs. Sigourney: "The excellence of all her poems is quiet and unassuming. They are full of the sweet images and bright associations of domestic life; its unobtrusive happiness, its unchanging affections, and its cares and sorrows; of the feelings naturally inspired by life's vicissitudes, from the cradle to the deathbed; of the hopes that burn, like the unquenched altar-fire, in that chosen dwelling-place of virtue and religion. The light of a pure and unostentatious faith shines around them, blending with her thoughts, and giving a tender coloring to her contemplations, like the melancholy beauty of our own autumnal scenery." We only add the following beautiful lines on the MARRIAGE OF THE DEAF AND DUMB. No word! no sound! But yet a solemn rite Methinks this silence heavily doth brood Which angels breathe? Mute! mute! 'tis passing strange So, ye voiceless pair, Pass on in hope. For ye may build as firm Your silent altar in each others' hearts, And catch the sunshine through the clouds of time As cheerily, as though the pomp of speech Did herald forth the deed. And when ye dwell BB Where flower fades not, and death no treasured link Is the free breath of every happy soul. SECTION VII. (1.) HANNAH F. GOULD, of Vermont, has acquired considerable reputation by her numerous contributions to newspapers of the day. The critic last quoted speaks of Miss Gould, as a writer of poetry, in the following beautiful terms: "One of the principal attractions of her writings is their perfect freedom from pretension; she composes without the slightest effort to do more than to express her own thoughts in the most unaffected language; in this way, however, she produces more effect than she could do by laborious effort. "Miss Gould is uniformly faithful to nature. Like Mrs. Sigourney, she gathers the wild flowers of the rock and dell; and she does more; she collects those which many pass by unnoticed, as too common and familiar to be entitled to a place in an ornamental garland; but she looks upon them as the works of God, and fitted to convey a striking moral. This, doubtless, is the secret of her popularity." THE SILVER-BIRD'S NEST. BY MISS H. F. GOULD. We were shown a beautiful specimen of the ingenuity of birds, a few days since, by Dr. Cook of this borough. It was a bird's nest made entirely of silver wires, beautifully woven together. The nest was found on a sycamore-tree, by Dr. Francis Beard, of York County. It was the nest of a hanging-bird, and the material was probably obtained from a soldier's epaulet which it had found.-Westchester Village Record, 1838. A stranded soldier's epaulet, The waters cast ashore, A little winged rover met, The silver bright so pleased her sight, On that lone, idle vest, She knew not why she should deny The shining wire she peck'd and twirl'd; Where on a flowery twig 'twas curl'd, Her house to make, she would not take, And when the little artisan, Of these, inlaid with skill, she made But, do you think the tender brood Because they knew they peep'd and grew (2.) LUCRETIA and Margaret DAVIDSON, New-York, are remarkable for the early development of their poetic capacities. Both died before they had reached seventeen years of age. Their writings have been collected by Washington Irving, accompanied with an interesting memoir. (3.) JAMES G. PERCIVAL, of Connecticut, born 1795. His first published volume contains many poems written in his seventeenth year. His early publications gave just offence by their sceptical sentiments, but his later writings are said to be free from these. It is stated that none of our poets surpass Dr. Percival in learning, scholarship, or universality of information. According to Mr. Kettell, "his poetry is more imaginative than sentimental, rather diffuse, and often negligent. But his language is well selected and picturesque, bold and idiomatic; his verse is harmonious, and contains many of those sweet and hallowed forms of expression which render poetry the repository of the most striking truths, as well as the vehicle of the finest emotions. His delineations of human feeling and conduct are sometimes beyond life and nature, and bordering on the extravagant." You are now presented with his affecting picture of "I had a husband once, who loved me: now I would, with kindness, all my wrongs repay, SECTION VIII. (1.) J. G. C. BRAINERD, of Connecticut, died 1828. His collection of poems consists of articles written hastily for a weekly newspaper edited by him; yet, says Mr. Kettell, "these productions, so little elaborated, and written under various causes of enervation, are stamped with an originality, boldness, force, and pathos, illustrative of genius, not, perhaps, inferior to that of Burns, and certainly much resembling it in kind. No man ever thought his own thoughts more independently than he did." Read his lines on THE INDIAN SUMMER. "What is there saddening in the autumn leaves? |