. ARTHUR'S SONG. Bid adieu to the homestead, adieu to the vale, Though the memory recalls them, give grief to the gale: For as well might the stream that comes down from the mount, Yet the lordly Ohio feels joy in his breast As he follows the sun, onward, into the West. Oh, to roam, like the rivers, through empires of woods, Or to ride the wild horse o'er the boundless domain, There to chase the fleet stag, and to track the huge bear, Leave the tears to the maiden, the fears to the child, New Pastoral. MARGARET MILLER DAVIDSON, 1823-1838. MARGARET MILLER DAVIDSON, the sister of Lucretia, and quite as remarkable for precocity of intellect, was born at Plattsburg, New York, on the 26th of March, 1823. Like her sister, she was of delicate and feeble frame from her infancy, and, like her, she had an early passion for knowledge. Her mother rather restrained than incited her; but, before she could even read well, she would talk in the language of poetry,-of "the pale, cold moon," of the stars "that shone like the eyes of angels," &c. At six years old, she was so far advanced in literature and intelligence as to be the companion of her mother when confined to her room by protracted illness. She read not only well, but elegantly: her love of reading amounted to a passion, and her intelligence surpassed belief. Strangers viewed with astonishment a child, not seven years old, reading with enthusiastic delight Thomson's "Seasons," the "Pleasures of Hope," Cowper's "Task," and even Milton, and marking with taste and discrimination the passages that struck her. But the Bible was her daily study, over which she 1 See p. 600. did not hurry as a task, but would spend an hour or two in commenting with her mother on the contents of the chapter she had read. In 1833, when she was ten years old, she had a severe attack of scarlet fever, from which she recovered but slowly; and her father, thinking that the climate and situation of Saratoga would benefit her, removed thither in that year. But she showed her love for the wilder scenes of her "Native Lake" in the following sweet verses-remarkable for one so young-on the charms of LAKE CHAMPLAIN. Thy verdant banks, thy lucid stream, The little isles that deck thy breast, How often, in my childish glee, I've sported round them bright and free! My own, my beautiful Champlain ! How oft I've watch'd the freshening shower And shall I never see thee more, My native lake, my much-loved shore? My own, my beautiful Champlain? In 1834, she was again seized by illness,—a liver-complaint, which ɔy sympathy affected her lungs, and confined her to her room for four months. On her recovery, her genius, which had seemed to lie dormant in sickness, broke forth with a brilliancy that astonished her friends; and she poured out, in rapid succession, some of her best pieces. But her health was evidently declining. The death of a beloved brother, in 1835, affected her deeply; and, with short and transient gleams of health amid dark and dismal prospects, this amiable and gifted child slept, as she herself trusted, in the arms of her Redeemer, on the 25th of November, 1838, aged fifteen years and eight months.1 1 Read an article in the "London Quarterly Review," by the poet Southey, vol. lxix. p. 91. In commenting upon Washington Irving's charming Memoir of this wonderful child, the "Democratic Review" for July, 1841, thus remarks: "This is a record, by one of the finest writers of the age, of one of the most remarkable prodigies that the poetical literature of any country has produced." In 1833, while on a visit to New York, she expressed, in the following beautiful Jines, her YEARNINGS FOR HOME. I would fly from the city, would fly from its care, I have friends whom I love, and would leave with regret, 'Twas there she first drew, and there yielded, her breath; Oh, could I but print a sweet kiss on his brow, Or smooth the gray locks to my fond heart so dear, But my own darling Home, it is dearer than all. TO HER MOTHER.' O mother! would the power were mine As when, in days of health and glee, But, mother! now a shade hath pass'd The torch of earthly hope burns dim, The pleasures that I prized before! My soul, with trembling steps and slow, The pathway to eternal life! Then, when my cares and fears are o'er, This was the last poem she ever wrote. I said that Hope had pass'd from earth,- Of sinners saved and sins forgiven: When God shall guide my soul above GEORGE H. BOKER. The following is the dedication to "Songs of Summer:" TO GEORGE H. BOKER. Not mine the tragic poet's art, I see you in your wide domain, That float in hell's murk air! Anon your bitter Fool appears, A narrower range to me belongs, RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. GEORGE HENRY BOKER was born in the city of Philadelphia in 1824, and was graduated at Princeton College in 1841. After travelling some time in Europe for literary improvement, he returned home "to devote a life of opulent leisure to the cultivation of letters and to the enjoyment of the liberal arts and of society." In 1847 appeared his first publication, under the title of The Lesson of Life, and other Poems; and the next year, Calaynos, a Tragedy, which was well received. The scene is laid in Spain, and the plot is designed to illustrate the hostile feeling between the Spanish and Moorish races. His next production was Anne Boleyn, a Tragedy, which shows more maturity of thought than Calaynos, and a finer vein of poetical feeling. These were followed by The Betrothal, Francesca da Rimini, and other plays. In 1856 appeared a collection of his dramatic and miscellaneous poems, in two beautiful volumes, from the press of Ticknor & Fields.' "The glow of his images is chastened by a noble simplicity, keeping them within the line of human sympathy and natural expression. He has followed the masters of dramatic writing with rare judgment. He also excels many gifted ODE TO A MOUNTAIN OAK. Proud mountain giant, whose majestic face, Or bent thy ruffled brow, to let the gale Strong link 'twixt vanish'd ages! Thou hast a sage and reverend look; As if life's struggle, through its varied stages, Thou hast no voice to tell what thou hast seen, And canst but point thy scars, and shake thy head, poets of his class in a quality essential to an acted play,-spirit. His language also rises often to the highest point of energy, pathos, and beauty."-H. T. TUCKERMAN. Mr. Boker's Ballad of Sir John Franklin is a beautiful production, a happy imitation of the ancient ballad,-but too long for insertion here. It reminds me, however, of the graceful "Ballad of the Tempest," by JAMES T. FIELDS. Mr. Fields was born at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, in 1820, and is a partner of the well-known publishing-house of Ticknor & Fields, Boston,-a house that never published an inferior book, nor any book in an inferior manner. Mr. Fields has won considerable reputation as a poet, by the volume of his poetical productions published in 1849, and by two volumes privately printed for friends in 1854 and 1858. BALLAD OF THE TEMPEST. We were crowded in the cabin, And a storm was on the deep. "Tis a fearful thing in winter To be shatter'd in the blast, For the stoutest held his breath, As thus we sat in darkness, Just the same as on the land?" And we spoke in better cheer, And we anchor'd safe in harbor When the morn was shining clear. * Their recent "Household Edition of the Waverley Novels"-the best published in this ountry-is highly creditable to their judgment and taste. |