Low in sepulchral dust lies Pallas' shrine--
Low in sepulchral dust thy Fanes divine-
And all thy visible self; yet o'er thy clay,
Soul, beauty, lingers, hallowing decay.

Not all the ills that war entailed on thee,
Not all the blood that stained Thermopyla-
Not all the desolation traitors wrought-
Not all the woe and want invaders brought-
Not all the tears that slavery could wring
From out thy heart of patient suffering-
Not all that drapes thy loveliness in night,
Can quench thy spirit's never-dying light;
But hovering o'er the lust of gods enshrined,
It beams, a beacon to the march of mind-
An oasis to sage and bard forlorn-
A guiding star to centuries unborn.

For thee I mourn-thy blood is in my veins—
To thee by consanguinity's strong chains

I'm bound and fain would die to make thee free;
But oh! there is no Liberty for thee!
Not all the wisdom of thy greatest One-*
Not all the bravery of Thetis' Son-

Not all the weight of mighty Phoebus' ire-
Not all the magic of the Athenian's Lyre-
Can ever bid thy tears or mourning cease

Or rend one gyve that binds thee, lovely Greece.
Where Corinth weeps beside Lepanto's deep,
Her palaces in desolation sleep.

Seated till dawn on moonlit column, I
Have sought to probe eternal Destiny;

I've roamed, fair Hellas, o'er thy battle-plains.
And stood within Apollo's ruined fanes,
Invoked the spirits of the past to wake,

Assist with swords of fire thy chains to break;
But only from the hollow sepulchres,
Murmured, "Eternal slavery is hers!"
And on thy bosom I have laid my head
And poured my soul out-tears of lava shed;
Before thy desecrated altars knelt,

To calmer feelings felt my sorrows melt,

And gladly with thee would have made my home, But pride and hate impelled me o'er the foam,

To distant lands and seas unknown to roam.

Julia Ward Howe

accession of Charles II., and who married a granddaughter of Roger Williams. Their son Richard became Governor of the State, and one of his sons, Samuel, was from 1774 to 1776 a member of the Old Continental Congress. This Samuel left a son Samuel, who served in the war of the Revolution, and was with Arnold in his expedition to Quebec. He was the grandfather of our author.

Her mother, a daughter of the late Mr. B. C. | Cutler, of Boston, was a lady of poetic culture, a specimen of whose occasional verses is given in Griswold's Female Poets of America.

Miss Ward, after having received an education of unusual care and extent from the most accomplished teachers, was married in 1843 to the distinguished Philhellene and philanthropist of Boston, Dr. Samuel G. Howe, with whom she has resided in Europe, under peculiarly favorable opportunities for the study of foreign art and life. A volume of poems from her pen, Passion Flowers, published in 1854, is a striking expression of her culture, and of thoughts and experience covering a wide range of emotion, from sympathies with the "nationalities" of Europe, to "the fee griefs due to a single breast."

An appreciative critic in the Southern Quarterly Review* has thus characterized the varying features of the book.

"The art is subordinate to the feeling; the thought more prominent than the rhyme; there is far more earnestness of feeling than fastidiousness of taste: -instead of being the result of a dalliance with fancy, these effusions are instinct with the struggle of life; they are the offspring of experience more than of imagination. They are written by a woman who knows how to think as well as to feel; one who has made herself familiar with the higher walks of literature; who has deeply pondered Hegel, Comte, Swedenborg, Goethe, Dante, and all the masters of song, of philosophy, and of faith. Thus accomplished, she has travelled, enjoyed cultivated society, and gone through the usual phases of womanly development and duty. Her muse, therefore, is no casual impulse of juvenile emotion, no artificial expression, no spasmodic sentiment; but a creature born of wide and deep reflection; of study, of sorrow, yearning, love, care, delight, and all the elements of real, and thoughtful, and earnest life."

THE CITY OF MY LOVE.

She sits among the eternal hills,
Their crown, thrice glorious and dear,
Her voice is as a thousand tongues
Of silver fountains, gurgling clear.

Her breath is prayer, her life is love,
And worship of all lovely things;
Her children have a gracious port,
Her beggars show the blood of kings.
By old Tradition guarded close,
None doubt the grandeur she has seen;
Upon her venerable front

Is written: "I was born a Queen!"

She rules the age by Beauty's power,
As once she ruled by arméd might;
The Southern sun doth treasure her
Deep in his golden heart of light.

Awe strikes the traveller when he sees
The vision of her distant dome,
And a strange spasm wrings his heart
As the guide whispers, "There is Rome!"
Rome of the Romans! where the Gods
Of Greek Olympus long held sway;
Rome of the Christians, Peter's tomb,
The Zion of our later day.

Rome, the mailed Virgin of the world,
Defiance on her brows and breast;

* July, 1854.

Rome, to voluptuous pleasure won,
Debauched, and locked in drunken rest.
Rome, in her intellectual day,
Europe's intriguing step-dame grown;
Rome, bowed to weakness and decay,
A canting, mass-frequenting crone.
Then th' unlettered man plods on,
Half chiding at the spell he feels,
The artist pauses at the gate,
And on the wonderous threshold kneels.

The sick man lifts his languid head
For those soft skies and balmy airs;
The pilgrim tries a quicker pace,
And hugs remorse, and patters prayers.
For ev'n the grass that feeds the herds
Methinks some unknown virtue yields
The very hinds in reverence tread
The precincts of the ancient fields.
But wrapt in gloom of night and death,
I crept to thee, dear mother Rome;
And in thy hospitable heart,

Found rest and comfort, health and home.

And friendships, warm and living still,
Although their dearest joys are fled;
True sympathies that bring to life
The better self, so often dead.
For all the wonder that thou wert,
For all the dear delight thou art,
Accept an homage from my lips,
That warms again a wasted heart.
And, though it seem a childish prayer,
I've breathed it oft, that when I die,
As thy remembrance dear in it,
That heart in thee might buried lie.

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 Gossips 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 there.
"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 trecs;
Of cool, glittering drops

God's gracious rainbow secs;
Of pale moons; of sai: ts
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 merchant 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 like in its employ,
And grows by utterance strong.

SARA JANE LIPPINCOTT.

This lady, whose productions in prose and vers are known to the public under her nom de plume "Grace Greenwood," was born at Onondaga, in the State of New York, of New England parent