Mrs. Osgood's poems were collected and published in New York, in 1846, and in one of the series of illustrated volumes of the works of American poets, by A. Hart of Philadelphia, in 1849.

In 1851 a volume containing contributions by her many literary friends, entitled the Memorial, was published by G. P. Putnam of New York. It contained a memoir from the pen of Mr. Griswold. It was an illustrated gift-book, and the profits of its sale were intended for the erection of a monument to the gifted writer, in whose honor it was issued.

Of a rare gracefulness and delicacy, Mrs. Osgood lived a truly poetic life. Her unaffected and lively manners, with her ready tact in conversation, combined with an unusual facility in writing verses, charmed a large circle of friends, as her winning lines in the periodicals of the day engaged the attention of the public. As an instance of her playfulness of mind, she wrote a collection of ludicrous and humorous verses for a child's book, to set off some rude engravings of The Cries of New York. The fanciful and the delicate in sentiment, supplied the usual themes of her verses, touched at times with passionate expression, and a darker shade, as the evils of life closed around her.

TO THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.

only,

Leave me not yet! Leave me not cold and lonely,
Thou dear Ideal of my pining heart!
Thou art the friend-the beautiful—the
Whom I would keep, tho' all the world depart!
Thou, that dost veil the frailest flower with glory,
Spirit of light and loveliness and truth!
Thou that didst tell me a sweet, fairy story,
Of the dim future, in my wistful youth
Thou, who canst weave a halo round the spirit,
Thro' which naught mean or evil dare intrude,
Resume not yet the gift, which I inherit

From Heaven and thee, that dearest, holiest good!

Leave me not now! Leave me not cold and lonely,
Thou starry prophet of my pining heart!
Thou art the friend-the tenderest-the only,

With whom, of all, 'twould be despair to part.
Thou that cam'st to me in my dreaming childhood,
Shaping the changeful clouds to pageants rare,
Peopling the smiling vale, and shaded wildwood,
With airy beings, faint yet strangely fair;
Telling me all the sea-born breeze was saying,
While it went whispering thro' the willing leaves,
Bidding me listen to the light rain playing

Its pleasant tune, about the household eaves; Tuning the low, sweet ripple of the river,

Till its melodious murmur seemed a song, A tender and sad chant, repeated ever,

A sweet, impassioned plaint of love and wrong!
Leave me not yet! Leave me not cold and lonely,
Thou star of promise o'er my clouded path!
Leave not the life, that borrows from thee only
All of delight and beauty that it hath!

Thou, that when others knew not how to love me,
Nor cared to fathom half my yearning soul,
Didst wreathe thy flowers of light, around, above me,
To woo and win me from my grief's control.
By all my dreams, the passionate, the holy,

When thou hast sung love's lullaby to me,
By all the childlike worship, fond and lowly,
Which I have lavished upon thine and thee.
By all the lays my simple lute was learning,
To echo from thy voice, stay with me still!

Once flown-alas! for thee there's no returning! The charm will die o'er valley, wood, and hill. Tell me not Time, whose wing my brow has shaded, Has withered spring's sweet bloom within my heart,

Ah, no! the rose of love is yet unfaded,

Tho' hope and joy, its sister flowers, depart.
Well do I know that I have wronged thine altar,
With the light offerings of an idler's mind,
And thus, with shame, my pleading prayer I falter,
Leave me not, spirit! deaf, and dumb, and blind!
Deaf to the mystic harmony of nature,

Blind to the beauty of her stars and flowers.
Leave me not, heavenly yet human teacher,
Lonely and lost in this cold world of ours!
Heaven knows I need thy music and thy beauty
Still to beguile me on my weary way,
To lighten to my soul the cares of duty,

And bless with radiant dreams the darkened day:
To charm my wild heart in the worldly revel,
Lest I, too, join the aimless, false, and vain;
Let me not lower to the soulless level

Of those whom now I pity and disdain! Leave me not yet!-leave me not cold and pining, Thou bird of paradise, whose plumes of light, Where'er they rested, left a glory shining; Fly not to heaven, or let me share thy flight!

LABOR.

Labor is rest-from the sorrows that greet us;
Rest from all petty vexations that meet us,
Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us,
Rest from world-syrens that lure us to ill.
Work-and pure slumbers shall wait on the pillow,
Work-thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow;
Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping willow!
Work with a stout heart and resolute will!
Labor is health! Lo the husbandman reaping,
How through his veins goes the life current leaping;
How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride sweeping,
Free as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides.
Labor is wealth-in the sea the pearl groweth,
Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth,
From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth,

Temple and statue the marble block hides. Droop not, tho' shame, sin, and anguish are round thee!

Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee;

Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee,

Rest not content in thy darkness—a clod!
Work-for some good be it ever so slowly;
Cherish some flower be it ever so lowly;
Labor-all labor is noble and holy;

Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God.
Pause not to dream of the future before us;
Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us:
Hark how Creation's deep, musical chorus,

Unintermitting, goes up into Heaven! Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing; Never the little seed stops in its growing; More and more richly the Rose-heart keeps glowing, Till from its nourishing stem it is riven.

Labor is life!-'tis the still water faileth;
Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth:
Keep the watch wound for the dark rust assaileth!
Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon.
Labor is glory!-the flying cloud lightens;
Only the waving wing changes and brightens;
Idle hearts only the dark future frightens;

Play the sweet keys wouldst thou keep them
in tune!

SONG SHE LOVES HIM YET.

She loves him yet!

I know by the blush that rises
Beneath the curls,

That shadow her soul-lit cheek;
She loves him yet!
Through all love's sweet disguises
In timid girls,

A blush will be sure to speak.

But deeper signs

Than the radiant blush of beauty,
The maiden finds,

Whenever his name is heard;

Her young heart thrills, Forgetting herself-her dutyHer dark eye fills,

And her pulse with hope is stirred.

She loves him yet!

The flower the false one gave her
When last he came,

Is still with her wild tears wet.
She'll ne'er forget,

Howe'er his faith may waver,
Through grief and shame,

Believe it-she loves him yet.

His favorite songs

She will sing-she heeds no other;

With all her wrongs,

Her life on his love is set.

Oh! doubt no more!

She never can wed another;

Till life be o'er,

She loves-she will love him yet.

TO A DEAR LITTLE TRUANT.

When are you coming? The flowers have come!
Bees in the balmy air happily hum:
Tenderly, timidly, down in the dell
Sighs the sweet violet, droops the Harebell:
Soft in the wavy grass glistens the dew-
Spring keeps her promises-why do not you?
Up in the air, love, the clouds are at play;
You are more graceful and lovely than they.!
Birds in the woods carol all the day long;
When are you coming to join in the song?
Fairer than flowers and purer than dew!.
Other sweet things are here-why are not you?

When are you coming? We've welcomed the Rose!
Every light zephyr, as gaily it goes,
Whispers of other flowers met on its way;
Why has it nothing of you, love, to say?
Why does it tell us of music and dew?

Rose of the South! we are waiting for you!

Do, darling, come to us!-'mid the dark trees,
Like a lute murmurs the musical breeze;
Sometimes the Brook, as it trips by the flowers,
Hushes its warble to listen for yours!
Pure as the Violet, lovely and true!

Spring should have waited till she could bring you!
VOL. II.-36

SEBA SMITH-ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH.

THE maiden name of this lady was Prince. She is descended on both her father's and mother's side from distinguished Puritan ancestry, and was born in the vicinity of Portland, Maine.

Miss Prince, at an early age, was married to Mr. Seba Smith, then editing a newspaper in Portland, who has since, under the "nom de plume" of Jack Downing, obtained a national reputation. In addition to the original series of the famous letters bearing the signature we have named, collected in a volume in 1833, and which are among the most successful adaptations of the Yankee dialect to the purposes of humorous writing, Mr. Smith is the author of Powhatan, a Metrical Romance, in seven cantos, published in New York in 1841, and of several shorter poems which have appeared in the periodicals of the day. He is also a successful writer of tales and essays for the magazines, a portion of which were collected in 1855, with the title Down East. In 1850 he published an elaborate scientific work entitled New Elements of Geometry.

Mrs. Smith's earliest poems were contributed to various periodicals anonymously, but in consequence of business disasters in which her husband became involved, she commenced the open profession of authorship as a means of support for her family. She has since been a constant contributor in prose and verse to the magazines.

The tree that stood where the soil's athirst,

And the mulleins first appear, Hath a dry and rusty-colored bark,

And its leaves are curled and sere;
But the dogwood and the hazel-bush
Have clustered round the brook-
Their roots have stricken deep beneath,
And they have a verdant look.

To the juicy leaf the grasshopper clings,
And he gnaws it like a file;
The naked stalks are withering by,
Where he has been erewhile.

The cricket hops on the glistering rock,
Or pipes in the faded grass;

The beetle's wing is folded mute,
Where the steps of the idler pass.

Mrs. Smith is also the author of The Roman Tribute, a tragedy in five acts, founded on the exemption of the city of Constantinople from destruction, by the tribute paid by Theodosius to the conquering Attila, and Jacob Leisler, a tragedy founded upon a well known dramatic incident in the colonial history of New York.

She has also written The Western Captive, a novel, which appeared in 1842, and a fanciful prose tale, The Salamander; a Legend for Christ

mas.

In 1851 she published Woman and her Needs, a volume on the Woman's Rights question, of which Mrs. Smith has been a prominent advocate by her pen, and occasionally as a public lecturer. Her last publication, Bertha and Lily, or the Parsonage of Beech Glen, a Romance, is a story of American country life. It contains some good sketches of character, and is in part devoted to the development of the author's social views.

THE POET.

Non vox sed votum.

Sing, sing-Poet, sing! With the thorn beneath thy breast, Robbing thee of all thy rest, Hidden thorn for ever thine, Therefore dost thou sit and twine

Lays of sorrowing-

Lays that wake a mighty gladness, Spite of all their sorrowing sadness.

Sing, sing-Poet, sing!

It doth ease thee of thy sorrowDarkling" singing till the morrow; Never weary of thy trust,

Hoping, loving, as thou must,

Let thy music ring;

Noble cheer it doth impart,
Strength of will and strength of heart.

Sing, sing-Poet, sing!

Thou art made a human voice;
Wherefore shouldst thou not rejoice
That the tears of thy mute brother
Bearing pangs he may not smother,

Through thee are flowing-
For his dim, unuttered grief,
Through thy song hath found relief!

Sing, sing-Poet, sing!

Join the music of the stars,
Wheeling on their sounding cars;
Each responsive in its place
To the choral hymn of space-

Lift, oh lift thy wing

And the thorn beneath thy breast, Though it pain, shall give thee rest.

STRENGTH FROM THE HILLS.

Come up unto the hills-thy strength is there.
Oh, thou hast tarried long,

Too long amid the bowers and blossoms fair,
With notes of summer song.

Why dost thou tarry there? What though the bird
Pipes matin in the vale-

The plough-boy whistles to the loitering herd,
As the red daylight fails.

Yet come unto the hills, the old strong hills,
And leave the stagnant plain;

Come to the gushing of the newborn rills,
As sing they to the main;

And thou with denizens of power shalt dwell
Beyond demeaning care;
Composed upon his rock, 'mid storm and fell,
The eagle shall be there.

Come up unto the hills--the shattered tree
Still clings unto the rock,

And flingeth out his branches wild and free,
To dare again the shock.

Come where no fear is known: the seabird's nest
On the old hemlock swings,

And thou shalt taste the gladness of unrest,
And mount upon thy wings.

Come up unto the hills. The men of old-
They of undaunted wills-

Grew jubilant of heart, and strong, and bold,
On the enduring hills—

Where came the soundings of the sea afar,
Borne upward to the ear,

And nearer grew the morn and midnight star,
And God himself more near.

CAROLINE M. KIRKLAND.

CAROLINE M. STANSBURY was born in the city of New York. Her grandfather was the author of several popular humorous verses on the events of the Revolution, which were published in Rivington's Gazette and other newspapers of the time. Her father was a bookseller and publisher of New York. After his death, the family removed to the western part of the state, where Miss Stansbury married Mr. William Kirkland.* After a residence of several years at Geneva, Mr. and Mrs. Kirkland removed to Michigan, where they resided for two years at Detroit, and for six months in the interior, sixty miles west of the city. In 1843 they removed to the city of New York.

Mrs. Kirkland's letters from the West were so highly relished by the friends to whom they were addressed, that the writer was induced to prepare a volume from their contents. A New HomeWho'll Follow? by Mrs. Mary Clavers, appeared

Mr. Kirkland was a cultivated scholar, and at one time a member of the Faculty of Hamilton College. He was the author of a series of Letters from Abroad, written after a residence in Europe, and of numerous contributions to the periodical press, among which may be mentioned, an article on the London Foreign Quarterly Review, in the Columbian, "English and American Monthlies "in Godey's Magazine," Our English Visitors" in the Columbian, "The Tyranny of Publie Opinion in the United States" in the Columbian, "The West, the Paradise of the Poor" in the Democratic Review, and "The United States Census for 1880" in Hunt's Merchants' Magazine.

In 1846 Mr. Kirkland, not long before his death, commenced with the Rev. H. W. Bellows, the Christian Inquirer, a weekly journal of the Unitarian denomination.

in 1839. Its delightful humor, keen observation, and fresh topic, made an immediate impression. Forest Life, and Western Clearings, gleanings from the same field, appeared in 1842 and 1846.

In 1846 Mrs. Kirkland published An Essay on the Life and Writings of Spenser, accompanied by a reprint of the first book of the Fairy Queen. In July, 1847, she commenced the editorship of the Union Magazine,-a charge she continued for eighteen months, until the removal of the periodical to Philadelphia, where it was published with the title of Sartain's Magazine, when Prof. John S. Hart, an accomplished literary gentleman of that city, was associated with Mrs. Kirkland in the editorship.

CM. Karklund

In 1848 Mrs. Kirkland visited Europe, and on her return published two pleasant volumes of her letters contributed to the magazine during her journey, with the title Holidays Abroad, or Europe from the West.

In 1852 Mrs. Kirkland published The Evening Book, or Fireside Talk on Morals and Manners, with Sketches of Western Life, and in 1853, a companion volume, A Book for the Home Circle, or Familiar Thoughts on Various Topics, Literary, Moral, and Social, containing a number of pleasantly written and sensible essays on topics of interest in every-day society, with a few brief stories. In 1852 she wrote the letterpress for The Book of Home Beauty, a holiday volume, containing the portraits of twelve American ladies. Mrs. Kirkland's text has no reference to these illustrations, but consists of a slight story of American society, interspersed with poetical quotations.

Mrs. Kirkland's writings are all marked by clear common sense, purity of style, and animated thought. Her keen perception of character is brought to bear on the grave as well as humorous side of human nature, on its good points as well as its foibles. Ever in favor of a graceful cultivation of the mind, her satire is directed against the false refinements of artificial life as well as the rude angularities of the back-woods. She writes always with heartiness, and it is not her fault if

At length came the much desired Tuesday, whose destined event was the first meeting of the society. I had made preparations for such plain and simple cheer as is usual at such feminine gatherings, and began to think of arranging my dress with the decorum required by the occasion, when, about one hour before the appointed time, came Mrs. Nippers and Miss Clinch, and ere they were unshawled and unhooded, Mrs. Flyter and her three children-the eldest four years, and the youngest six months. Then Mrs. Muggles and her crimson baby, four weeks old. Close on her heels, Mrs. Briggs and her little boy of about three years' standing, in a long tailed coat, with vest and decencies of scarlet circassian. And there I stood in my gingham wrapper and kitchen apron; much to my discomfiture and the undisguised surprise of the Female Beneficent Society.

"I always calculate to be ready to begin at the time appointed," remarked the gristle-lipped widow.

"So do I," responded Mrs. Flyter and Mrs. Muggles, both of whom sat the whole afternoon with baby on knee, and did not sew a stitch.

What! isn't there any work ready?" continued Mrs. Nippers, with an astonished aspect; "well, I did suppose that such smart officers as we have would have prepared all beforehand. We always used to at the East."

Mrs. Skinner, who is really quite a pattern-woman in all that makes woman indispensable, viz., cookery and sewing, took up the matter quite warmly, just as I slipped away in disgrace to make the requisite reform in my costume.

There

When I returned, the work was distributed, and the company broken up into little knots or coteries; every head bowed, and every tongue in full play. I took my seat at as great a distance from the sharp widow as might be,-though it is vain to think of eluding a person of her ubiquity, and reconnoitred the company who were "done off" (indigenous) "in first-rate style," for this important occasion. were nineteen women with thirteen babies-or at least "young 'uns," (indigenous,) who were not above gingerbread. Of these thirteen, nine held large chunks of gingerbread, or dough-nuts, in trust, for the benefit of the gowns of the society; the remaining four were supplied with bunches of maplesugar, tied in bits of rag, and pinned to their shoulders, or held dripping in the fingers of their

mammas.

Mrs. Flyter was "slicked up" for the occasion in the snuff-colored silk she was married in, curiously enlarged in the back, and not as voluminous in the floating part as is the wasteful custom of the present day. Her three immense children, white-haired and blubber-lipped like their amiable parent, were in pink ginghams and blue-glass beads. Mrs. Nippers wore her unfailing brown merino and black apron; Miss Clinch her inevitable scarlet calico; Mrs. Skinner her red merino, with baby of the same; Mrs Daker shone out in her very choicest city finery, (where else could she show it, poor thing?) and a dozen other Mistresses shone in their "'t other gowns," and their tamboured collars. Mrs. Doubleday's pretty black-eyed Dolly was neatly stowed in a small willow basket, where it lay looking about with eyes full of sweet wonder, behaving itself with marvellous quietness and discretion, as did most of the other little torments, to do them justice.

Much consultation, deep and solemn, was held as to the most profitable kinds of work to be undertaken by the Society. Many were in favor of making up linen, cotton linen of course, but Mrs. Nippers assured the company that shirts never used to sell well at the East, and therefore she was perfectly certain that they would not do here. Pincushions and such like feminilities were then proposed; but at these Mrs. Nippers held up both hands, and showed a double share of blue-white around her eyes. body about her needed pincushions, and besides, where should we get materials! Aprons, capes, caps, collars, were all proposed with the same ill success. At length Mrs. Doubleday, with an air of great deference, inquired what Mrs. Nippers would recommend.

No

The good lady hesitated a little at this. It was more her forte to object to other people's plans, than to suggest better; but, after a moment's consideration, she said she should think fancy-boxes, watch-cases, and alum-baskets, would be very pretty. A dead silence fell on the assembly, but of course it did not last long. Mrs. Skinner went on quietly cutting out shirts, and in a very short time furnished each member with a good supply of work, stating that any lady might take work home to finish if she liked.

Mrs. Nippers took her work, and edged herself into a coterie of which Mrs. Flyter had seemed till then the magnet. Very soon I heard, "I declare it's a shame!" "I don't know what 'll be done about it!" "She told me so with her own mouth!" "O, but I was there myself!" etc., etc., in many different voices; the interstices well filled with undistinguishable whispers "not loud but deep."

It was not long before the active widow transferred her seat to another corner; Miss Clinch plying her tongue, not her needle, in a third. The whispers and the exclamations seemed to be gaining ground. The few silent members were inquiring for more work.

"Mrs. Nippers has the sleeve! Mrs. Nippers, have you finished that sleeve?"

Mrs. Nippers colored, said "No," and sewed four stitches. At length the storm grew loud apace." "It will break up the society.

"What is that?" asked Mrs. Doubleday, in her sharp treble. "What is it, Mrs. Nippers? You

know all about it."

Mrs. Nippers replied that she only knew what she had heard, etc., etc., but, after a little urging, consented to inform the company in general, that there was great dissatisfaction in the neighborhood; that those who lived in log-houses at a little distance from the village, had not been invited to join the society; and also that many people thought twenty-five cents quite too high for a yearly subscription.

Many looked aghast at this. Public opinion is nowhere so strongly felt as in this country, among new settlers. And as many of the present company still lived in log-houses, a tender string was touched.

At length, an old lady, who had sat quietly in a corner all the afternoon, looked up from behind the great woollen sock she was knitting

"Well, now! that's queer!" said she, addressing Mrs. Nippers with an air of simplicity simplified. "Miss Turner told me you went round her neighborhood last Friday, and told that Miss Clavers and Miss Skinner despised every body that lived in loghouses; and you know you told Miss Briggs that you thought twenty-five cents was too much; didn't she, Miss Briggs ?" Mrs. Briggs nodded.

The widow blushed to the very centre of her

pale eyes, but "e'en though vanquished," she lost not her assurance. "Why, I'm sure I only said that we only paid twelve-and-a-half cents at the East; and as to log-houses, I don't know, I can't just recollect, but I didn't say more than others did."

But human nature could not bear up against the mortification; and it had, after all, the scarce credible effect of making Mrs. Nippers sew in silence for some time, and carry her colors at half-mast the remainder of the afternoon.

At tea each lady took one or more of her babies in her lap and much grabbing ensued. Those who wore calicoes seemed in good spirits and appetite, for green tea at least, but those who had unwarily sported silks and other unwashables, looked acid and uncomfortable. Cake flew about at a great rate, and the milk and water, which ought to have quietly gone down sundry juvenile throats, was spirted without mercy into various wry faces. But we got through. The astringent refreshment produced its usual crisping effect upon the vivacity of the company. Talk ran high upon almost all Montacutian themes.

"Do you have any butter now?" "When are you going to raise your barn?" Is your man a going

to kill this week?" "I ha'n't seen a bit of meat these six weeks." "Was you to meetin' last Sabbath?" "Has Miss White got any wool to sell !* "Do tell if you've been to Detroit?" "Are you out of candles ?" "Well, I should think Sarah Teals wanted a new gown!" "I hope we shall have milk in a week or two," and so on; for, be it known, that, in a state of society like ours, the bare necessaries of life are subjects of sufficient interest for a good deal of conversation. More than one truly respectable woman of our neighborhood has told me, that it is not very many years since a moderate allowance of Indian meal and potatoes was literally all that fell to their share of this rich world for weeks together.

Is your daughter Isabella well?" asked Mrs. Nippers of me solemnly, pointing to little Bell who sat munching her bread and butter, half asleep, at the fragmentious table.

Yes, I believe so, look at her cheeks."

Ah, yes! it was her cheeks I was looking at. They are so very rosy. I have a little niece who is the very image of her. I never see Isabella without thinking of Jerushy; and Jerushy is most dreadfully scrofulous."

Satisfied at having made me uncomfortable, Mrs. Nippers turned to Mrs. Doubleday, who was trotting her pretty babe with her usual proud fondness.

"Don't you think your baby breathes rather strangely?" said the tormenter.

"Breathes! how!" said the poor thing, off her guard in an instant.

66

Why, rather croupish, I think, if I am any judge. I have never had any children of my own to be sure, but I was with Mrs. Green's baby when it died, and-"

66

Come, we'll be off!" said Mr. Doubleday, who had come for his spouse. "Don't mind the envious vixen "-aside to his Polly.

Just then, somebody on the opposite side of the room happened to say, speaking of some cloth affair, "Mrs. Nippers says it ought to be sponged."

"Well, sponge it then by all means," said Mr. Doubleday," nobody else knows half as much about sponging" and, with wife and baby in tow, off walked the laughing Philo, leaving the widow absolutely transfixed.

66

What could Mr. Doubleday mean by that?" was at length her indignant exclamation.