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MRS. EMILY JUDSON-THOMAS BURBIDGE.

Mrs. Emily Judson.

AMERICAN.

Miss Chubbuck (1817-1854) was a native of Morrisville, N. Y. At an early age she went to Utica as a teacher, and there made her first attempts at authorship. She wrote under the assumed name of Fanny Forrester, and published a collection of her essays and sketches in two volumes under the title of "Alderbrook." This work had quite a success. In 1846 she married Dr. Judson, the missionary, and sailed for Burmah. She returned home after her husband's decease, but followed him soon after.

Sleep, love, sleep!

WATCHING.

The dusty day is done.

Lo! from afar the freshening breezes sweep, Wild over groves of balm,

Down from the towering palm,

In at the open casement cooling run,

And round thy lowly bed,

Thy bed of pain,

Bathing thy patient head,

Like grateful showers of rain,

They come;

While the white curtains, wavering to and fro,

Fan the sick air,

And pityingly the shadows come and go,

With gentle human care,

Compassionate and dumb.

The dusty day is done,

The night begun ;

And drops like balm into the drowsy ear; Commingling with the hum

Of the Sepoy's distant drum,

And lazy beetle ever droning near,—
Sounds these of deepest silence born
Like night made visible by morn;
So silent that I sometimes start
To hear the throbbings of my heart,
And watch with shivering sense of pain
To see thy pale lids lift again.

The lizard, with his mouse-like eyes,
Peeps from the mortise in surprise

At such strange quiet of the day's harsh din;
Then ventures boldly out,

And looks about,

And with his hollow feet

Treads his small evening beat,

Darting upon his prey

In such a tricksy, winsome sort of way,

His delicate marauding seems no sin.

And still the curtains swing,

But noiselessly;

The bells a melancholy murmur ring,

As tears were in the sky;

More heavily the shadows fall

Like the black foldings of a pall,

Where juts the rough beam from the wall;

The candles flare

With fresher gusts of air;

The beetle's drone

Turns to a dirge-like, solitary moan;

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Night deepens, and I sit, in cheerful doubt, alone.

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JAMES T. FIELDS.-DENIS F. MCCARTHY.-MRS. ELIZABETH FRIES ELLET.

His smile was stamped on every tree,

The glacier shone to gild his name, And every image in the lake

Reflected back his fame.

Great keeper of the magic keys
That could unlock the magic gates
Where Science like a monarch stands,
And sacred Knowledge waits,—

Thine ashes rest on Auburn's banks, Thy memory all the world contains, For thou couldst bind in human love All hearts in golden chains!

Thine was the heaven-born spell that sets Our warm and deep affections free,-Who knew thee best must love thee best, And longest mourn for thee!

Denis Florence McCarthy.

Born in Ireland in 1817, McCarthy published in 1853 an excellent translation of some of the Spanish dramas of Calderon. He is also the author of " Ballads, Poems, and other Lyrics" (1850), "Under Glimpses, and other Poems" (1857), "Bell-Founder, and other Poems" (1857), "Shelley's Early Life" (1872).

SUMMER LONGINGS.

Las mananas floridas

De Abril y Mayo.-CALDERON.

Ah! my heart is weary waiting,

Waiting for the May

Waiting for the pleasant rambles, Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles, With the woodbine alternating,

Scent the dewy way.

Ah! my heart is weary waiting,
Waiting for the May.

Ah! my heart is sick with longing, Longing for the MayLonging to escape from study, To the young face fair and ruddy, And the thousand charms belonging To the summer day.

Ah! my heart is sick with longing, Longing for the May.

Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, Sighing for the May

Sighing for their sure returning,

When the summer beams are burning,
Hopes and flowers, that, dead or dying,
All the winter lay.

Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,
Sighing for the May.

Ah! my heart is pained with throbbing,
Throbbing for the May-
Throbbing for the sea-side billows,
Or the water-wooing willows;
Where in laughing and in sobbing,
Glide the streams away.

Ah! my heart, my heart is throbbing,
Throbbing for the May.

Waiting sad, dejected, weary,

Waiting for the May.

Spring goes by with wasted warnings-
Moonlit evenings, sun-bright mornings-
Summer comes, yet dark and dreary,
Life still ebbs away-
Man is ever weary, weary,
Waiting for the May!

Mrs. Elizabeth Fries Ellet.

AMERICAN.

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Mrs. Ellet, whose maiden name was Lummis, was a native of Sodus, N. Y., and born in 1818. She married early in life Professor W. H. Ellet. She has published "Poems, Original and Selected," and numerous prose works, of which her "Women of the American Revolution" has passed through many editions.

SONNET.

O weary heart, there is a rest for thee!
O truant heart, there is a blessed home,
An isle of gladness on life's wayward sea,
Where storms that vex the waters never come!
There trees perennial yield their balmy shade;
There flower-wreathed hills in sunlit beauty sleep;
There meek streams murmur through the verdant
glade;

There heaven bends smiling o'er the placid deep,
Winnowed by wings immortal that fair isle!
Vocal its air with music from above!
There meets the exile eye a welcoming smile;
There ever speaks a summoning voice of love
Unto the heavy-laden and distressed,-
"Come unto me, and I will give you rest!"

Arthur Cleveland Coxe.

AMERICAN.

The son of a well-known Presbyterian clergyman, Coxe was born in New York in 1818. He graduated at the University of that city in 1838; studied divinity, and became Bishop of Western New York. He began to write poetry while quite young. His "Christian Ballads have had a large sale both in England and the United States. Among his other works are: "Advent, a Mystery: a Dramatic Poem;" "Athwold: a Romaunt;" "Halloween;""Athanasion;" "Sermons on Doctrine and Duty;" "Impressions of England," etc.

WATCHWORDS.

We are living,--we are dwelling

In a grand and awful time; In an age, on ages telling,

To be living--is sublime.

Hark! the waking up of nations, Gog and Magog to the fray; Hark

what soundeth, is Creation's Groaning for its latter day.

Will ye play, then! will ye dally, With your music, with your wine? Up! it is Jehovah's rally!

God's own arm hath need of thine.

Hark! the onset! will ye fold your
Faith-clad arms in lazy lock!
Up, oh up, thou drowsy soldier!

Worlds are charging to the shock.

Worlds are charging-heaven beholding!
Thou hast but an hour to fight;
Now, the blazoned cross unfolding,
On-right onward, for the right!

What! still hug thy dreamy slumbers?
"Tis no time for idling play,
Wreaths, and dance, and poet-numbers,
Flout them! we must work to-day!

Fear not! spurn the worldling's laughter;
Thine ambition-trample thou!
Thou shalt find a long Hereafter,
To be more than tempts thee now.

On! let all the soul within you

For the truth's sake go abroad! Strike! let every nerve and sinew Tell on ages-tell for God!

MATIN BELLS.

The Sun is up betimes,

And the dappled East is blushing, And the merry matin chimes,

They are gushing-Christian-gushing! They are tolling in the tower,

For another day begun; And to hail the rising hour

Of a brighter, brighter Sun!
Rise-Christian-rise!

For a sunshine brighter far
Is breaking o'er thine eyes,
Than the bonnie morning star!

The lark is in the sky,

And his morning-note is pouring; He hath a wing to fly,

So he's soaring-Christian-soaring! His nest is on the ground,

But only in the night;

For he loves the matin sound,

And the highest heaven's height. Hark-Christian-hark!

At heaven-door he sings! And be thou like the lark,

With thy soaring spirit-wings!

The merry matin bells,

In their watch-tower they are swinging; For the day is o'er the dells,

And they're singing Christian-singing! They have caught the morning beam Through their ivied turret's wreath, And the chancel-window's gleam Is glorions beneath: Go-Christian-go,

For the altar flameth there, And the snowy vestments glow Of the presbyter at prayer!

There is morning incense flung

From the child-like lily-flowers; And their fragrant censer swung, Make it ours-Christian-ours! And hark, the morning hymn,

And the organ-peals we love! They sound like cherubim

At their orisons above! Pray-Christian-pray,

At the bonnie peep of dawn, Ere the dew-drop and the spray That christen it are gone!

THOMAS HILL.

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Thomas Hill.

AMERICAN.

The Rev. Thomas Hill, D.D., LL.D., was born in New Brunswick, N. J., in 1818. His parents were both of English birth, and died while he was yet a child. When twelve years old, he was apprenticed to a printer, with whom he remained three years. But he studied Latin and Greek, entered Harvard College, graduated in 1843, and passed two years at the Divinity School. He presided over the Unitarian Church in Waltham, Mass., for fourteen years; in 1859 succeeded Horace Mann as President of Antioch College, Ohio; was thence called to the Presidency of Harvard-an office he held six years, when failing health caused him to resign. He accompanied Agassiz in the voyage of the Hassler through the Straits of Magellan. On his return (1873) he was installed over a church in Portland, Maine. Dr. Hill was the first to propose (1847) daily predictions of the weather, founded on telegraphic reports. He is gifted as a mathematician, and published (1849) a valuable little work, entitled "Geometry and Faith." He is one of the most American of our poets, and his productions evince an irrepressible love of Nature. He is the author of some excellent hymns. As versatile in his accomplishments as in his pursuits, a poet and a philosopher, a man of executive ability and an eloquent preacher, he has shown eminent talents in all his undertakings. Four years of his youth in an apothecary's shop made him a skilful pharmacist.

THE BOBOLINK.

Bobolink! that in the meadow,
Or beneath the orchard's shadow,
Keepest up a constant rattle,
Joyous as my children's prattle,--
Welcome to the North again!
Welcome to mine ear thy strain,
Welcome to mine eye the sight
Of thy buff, thy black and white.
Brighter plumes may greet the sun
By the banks of Amazon;

Sweeter tones may weave the spell
Of enchanting Philomel;
But the tropic bird would fail,
And the English nightingale,
If we should compare their worth
With thine endless, gushing mirth.

When the ides of May are past, June and Summer nearing fast, While from depths of blue above Comes the mighty breath of love, Calling out each bud and flower With resistless, secret power,— Waking hope and fond desire, Kindling the erotic fire,—

Filling youths' and maidens' dreams
With mysterious, pleasing themes;
Then, amid the sunlight clear
Floating in the fragrant air,
Thou dost fill each heart with pleasure
By thy glad, ecstatic measure.

A single note so sweet and low,
Like a full heart's overflow,
Forms the prelude; but the strain
Gives us no such tone again,
For the wild and saucy song
Leaps and skips the notes among,
With such quick and sportive play,
Ne'er was madder, merrier lay.

Gayest songster of the spring!
Thy melodies before me bring
Visions of some dream-built land,
Where, by constant zephyrs fanned,
I might walk the livelong day
Embosomed in perpetual May.
Nor care nor fear thy bosom knows;
For thee a tempest never blows;
But when our Northern summer's o'er,
By Delaware's or Schuylkill's shore
The wild rice lifts its airy head,
And royal feasts for thee are spread.
And when the winter threatens there,
Thy tireless wings yet own no fear,
But bear thee to more Southern coasts,
Far beyond the reach of frosts.

Bobolink! still may thy gladness
Take from me all taint of sadness;
Fill my soul with trust unshaken
In that Being who has taken
Care for every living thing,
In summer, winter, fall, and spring.

ANTIOPA.1

At dead of night a south-west breeze
Came silently stealing along;
The bluebird followed at break of day,
Singing his low, sweet song.

The breeze crept through the old stone wall, And wakened the butterfly there,

Written in the Straits of Magellan in the spring of 1872. The butterfly which comes out of stone walls in April is Vanessa antiopa.

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