Each night shall ope a gulf of horrid dreams
To swallow up thy soul. The livelong day
That soul shall yearn for peace and quietness,
As the hart panteth for the water-brooks,
And know that even in death is no repose!
And this shall be thy life! Then a dark hour
Will surely come-

Piso. Maiden, be warn'd! All this

I know. It moves me not.

Miriam. Nay, one thing more

Thou knowest not. There is on all this earth-
Full as it is of young and gentle hearts-
One man alone that loves a wretch like thee:
And he, thou say st, must die! All other eyes
Do greet thee with a cold or wrathful look,
Or, in the baseness of their fear, shun thine;
And he whose loving glance alone spake peace,
Thou sayst must die in youth! Thou know'st not
The deep and bitter sense of loneliness, [yet
The throes and achings of a childless heart,
Which yet will all be thine! Thou know'st not yet
What 'tis to wander mid thy spacious halls,
And find them desolate! wildly to start
From thy deep musings at the distant sound
Of voice or step like his, and sink back sick-
Ay! sick at heart-with dark remembrances!
When, in his bright and joyous infancy,
His laughing eyes amid thick curls sought thine,
And his soft arms were twined around thy neck,
And his twin rosebud lips just lisp'd thy name-
Yet feel in agony 't is but a dream!
Thou know'st not yet what 'tis to lead the van
Of armies hurrying on to victory,
Yet, in the pomp and glory of that hour,
Sadly to miss the well-known snowy plume,
Whereon thine eyes were ever proudly fix'd
In battle-field! to sit, at deep midnight,
Alone within thy tent, all shuddering,
When, as the curtain'd door lets in the breeze,
Thy fancy conjures up the gleaming arms
And bright, young hero-face of him who once
Had been most welcome there! and, worst of all-
Piso. It is enough! The gift of prophecy
Is on thee, maid! A power that is not thine
Looks out from that dilated, awful form-
Those eyes, deep-flashing with unearthly light-
And stills my soul. My PAULUS must not die!
And yet, to give up thus the boon-

Miriam. What boon?

A boon of blood? To him, the good, old man,
Death is not terrible, but only seems
A dark, short passage to a land of light,
Where, mid high ecstasy, he shall behold
The unshrouded glories of his Maker's face,
And learn all mysteries, and gaze at last
Upon the ascended prince, and never more
Know grief or pain, or part from those he loves!
Yet will his blood cry loudly from the dust,
And bring deep vengeance on his murderer!

Piso. My PAULUS must not die! Let me revolve;
Maiden! thy words have sunk into my soul;
Yet would I ponder ere I thus lay down
A purpose cherish'd in my inmost heart,
That which hath been my dream by night, by day
My life's sole aim. Have I not deeply sworn,

Long years ere thou wert born, that, should the gods
E'er give him to my rage-and yet I pause!
Shall Christian vipers sting mine only son,
And I not crush them into nothingness?
Am I so pinion'd, vain, and powerless?
Work, busy brain! thy cunning must not fail.
[Retires.

PRAYER.

WITHIN these mighty walls of sceptred Rome
A thousand temples rise unto her gods,
Bearing their lofty domes unto the skies, [shrines
Graced with the proudest pomp of earth; their
Glittering with gems, their stately colonnades,
Their dreams of genius wrought into bright forms,
Instinct with grace and godlike majesty,
Their ever-smoking altars, white-robed priests,
And all the pride of gorgeous sacrifice. [ascend
And yet these things are naught. Rome's prayers
To greet the unconscious skies, in the blue void
Lost like the floating breath of frankincense,
And find no hearing or acceptance there.
And yet there is an Eye that ever marks
Where its own people pay their simple vows,
Though to the rocks, the caves, the wilderness,
Scourged by a stern and ever-watchful foe!
There is an Ear that hears the voice of prayer
Rising from lonely spots where Christians meet,
Although it stir not more the sleeping air
Than the soft waterfall, or forest-breeze.
Think'st thou, my father, this benignant GoD
Will close his ear, and turn in wrath away
From the poor, sinful creature of his hand,
Who breathes in solitude her humble prayer?
Think'st thou he will not hear me, should I kneel
Here in the dust beneath his starry sky,
And strive to raise my voiceless thoughts to HIM,
Making an altar of my broken heart?

MIRIAM TO PAULUS.

EVER from that hour, when first
My spirit knew that time was wholly lost,
And to its superstitions wedded fast,
Shrouded in darkness, blind to every beam
Streaming from Zion's hill athwart the night
That broods in horror o'er a heathen world,
E'en from that hour my shuddering soul beheld
A dark and fathomless abyss yawn wide
Between us two! and o'er it gleam'd alone
One pale, dim-twinkling star! the lingering hope
That grace, descending from the Throne of Light,
Might fall in gentle dews upon that heart,
And melt it into humble piety.
Alas! that hope hath faded! and I see
The fatal gulf of separation still
Between us, love, and stretching on for aye
Beyond the grave, in which I feel that soon
This clay with all its sorrows shall lie down.
Union for us is none, in yonder sky:
Then how on earth?-so in my inmost soul,
Nurtured with midnight tears, with blighted hopes,
With silent watchings and incessant prayers,
A holy resolution hath ta'en root,

And in its might at last springs proudly up.
We part, my PAULUS! not in hate, but love,
Yielding unto a stern necessity.

THE history of a woman of genius, more than that of a man possessing the same intellectual qualities, is usually unmarked by events of the kind which interest the general readers of biography. Her life is but a succession of thoughts and emotions, and he who would understand these must study her writings.

Miss MANLEY, now Mrs. EMBURY, is a native of the city of New York, where her father has been for many years an eminent physician. She was educated in the best schools of that city, and, at twenty, was married to Mr. EMBURY, now of Brooklyn, a gentleman of liberal fortune and high attainments. At an early age she began to contribute to the periodicals, under the signature of "IANTHE," and soon after her marriage appeared

a collection of her writings, entitled "Guido, and other Poems." "Guido" is a story of passion, gracefully told, and some of the "Sketches from History," in the same volume, exhibit considerable dramatic and descriptive power. They are, however, much inferior to her later works, which are carefully finished and more original in their ideas and illustrations. She has a rich fancy, and much skill in the use of language, and her subjects are well chosen.

She has written several admirable prose works, of which "Constance Latimer, the Blind Girl," is the most popular. Her contributions to the literary journals, in prose and verse, would form a number of volumes. They are all distinguished for delicate thought, pure sentiment, and elegant diction.

AUTUMN EVENING.

"And ISAAC went out in the field to meditate at eventide."

Go forth at morning's birth,
When the glad sun, exulting in his might,
Comes from the dusky-curtain'd tents of night,
Shedding his gifts of beauty o'er the earth;
When sounds of busy life are on the air,
And man awakes to labour and to care,
Then hie thee forth: go out amid thy kind,
Thy daily tasks to do, thy harvest-sheaves to bind.

Go forth at noontide hour,
Beneath the heat and burden of the day
Pursue the labours of thine onward way,

Nor murmur if thou miss life's morning flower;
Where'er the footsteps of mankind are found
Thou mayst discern some spot of hallow'd ground,
Where duty blossoms even as the rose,
Though sharp and stinging thorns the beauteous
bud enclose.

Go forth at eventide,

When sounds of toil no more the soft air fill,
When e'en the hum of insect life is still,

And the bird's song on evening's breeze has died; Go forth, as did the patriarch of old, [told, And commune with thy heart's deep thoughts unFathom thy spirit's hidden depths, and learn The mysteries of life, the fires that inly burn.

Go forth at eventide,

The eventide of summer, when the trees Yield their frail honours to the passing breeze, And woodland paths with autumn tints are dyed; When the mild sun his paling lustre shrouds In gorgeous draperies of golden clouds, Then wander forth, mid beauty and decay, To meditate alone,-alone to watch and pray.

Go forth at eventide,

Commune with thine own bosom, and be still,Check the wild impulses of wayward will,

And learn the nothingness of human pride; Morn is the time to act, noon to endure; But, O! if thou wouldst keep thy spirit pure, Turn from the beaten path by worldlings trod, Go forth at eventide, in heart to walk with GOD.

THE OLD MAN'S LAMENT.

O! FOR One draught of those sweet waters now That shed such freshness o'er my early life! O! that I could but bathe my fever'd brow

To wash away the dust of worldly strife! And be a simple-hearted child once more, As if I ne'er had known this world's pernicious lore! My heart is weary, and my spirit pants

Beneath the heat and burden of the day; Would that I could regain those shady haunts, Where once, with Hope, I dream'd the hours

away,

Giving my thoughts to tales of old romance, And yielding up my soul to youth's delicious trance! Vain are such wishes! I no more may tread

With lingering step and slow the green hill-side; Before me now life's shortening path is spread, And I must onward, whatsoe'er betide; The pleasant nooks of youth are pass'd for aye, And sober scenes now meet the traveller on his way. Alas! the dust which clogs my weary feet

Glitters with fragments of each ruin'd shrine, Where once my spirit worshipp'd,when,with sweet And passionless devotion, it could twine Its strong affections round earth's earthliest things, Yet bear away no stain upon its snowy wings.

What though some flowers have 'scaped the tempest's wrath?

Daily they droop by nature's swift decay: What though the setting sun still lights my path? Morn's dewy freshness long has pass'd away. O! give me back life's newly-budded flowers, Let me once more inhale the breath of morning's hours!

My youth! my youth!-O,give me back my youth! Not the unfurrow'd brow and blooming cheek; But childhood's sunny thoughts, its perfect truth,

And youth's unworldly feelings, these I seek; Ah, who could e'er be sinless and yet sage? Would that I might forget Time's dark and blotted page!

Not there, not there Peace builds her halcyon
Wild revel scares her from wealth's towering dome,
And misery frights her from the poor man's home.
Nor dwells she in the cloister, where the sage
Ponders the mystery of some time-stain'd page,
Delving, with feeble hand, the classic mine;
O! who can tell the restless hope of fame,
The bitter yearnings for a deathless name, [twine!
That round the student's heart, like serpents,
Ambition's fever burns within his breast,
Can Peace, sweet Peace, abide with such a guest?
Search not within the city's crowded mart,
Where the low-whisper'd music of the heart

Is all unheard amid the clang of gold;
O! never yet did Peace her chaplet twine
To lay upon base mammon's sordid shrine,

Where earth's most precious things are bought
and sold;
Thrown on that pile, the pearl of price would be
Despised, because unfit for merchantry.

Go! hie thee to God's altar,--kneeling there,
List to the mingled voice of fervent prayer

That swells around thee in the sacred fane;
Or catch the solemn organ's pealing note,
When grateful praises on the still air float,

And the freed soul forgets earth's heavy chain; There learn that Peace, sweet Peace is ever found In her eternal home, on holy ground.

MADAME DE STAEL.

THERE was no beauty on thy brow,

No softness in thine eye;

Thy cheek wore not the rose's glow,

Thy lip the ruby's dye;

The charms that make a woman's pride
Had never been thine own-

For Heaven to thee those gifts denied
In which earth's bright ones shone.

But higher, holier spells were thine,
For mental wealth was given,
Till thou wert as a sacred shrine

Where men might worship Heaven.
Yes, woman as thou wert, thy word
Could make the tyrant start,
And thy tongue's witchery has stirr'd
Ambition's iron heart.

The charm of eloquence,—the skill
To wake each secret string,

And from the bosom's chords, at will,

Life's mournful music bring;

The o'ermastering strength of mind, which sways
The haughty and the free,

Whose might earth's mightiest one obeys,―
These, these were given to thee.

Thou hadst a prophet's eye to pierce

The depths of man's dark soul,
For thou couldst tell of passions fierce
O'er which its wild waves roll;
And all too deeply hadst thou learn'd

The lore of woman's heart,

The thoughts in thine own breast that burn'd Taught thee that mournful part.

Thine never was a woman's dower

Of tenderness and love,

Thou, who couldst chain the eagle's power,
Couldst never tame the dove;

O! Love is not for such as thee:

The gentle and the mild,
The beautiful thus blest may be,

But never Fame's proud child.
When mid the halls of state, alone,
In queenly pride of place,
The majesty of mind thy throne,
Thy sceptre mental grace;

Then was thy glory felt, and thou
Didst triumph in that hour

When men could turn from beauty's brow
In tribute to thy power.

And yet a woman's heart was thine,

No dream of fame could fill

The bosom which must vainly pine
For sweet Affection still;

And, O! what pangs thy spirit wrung
E'en in thine hour of pride,

When all could list Love's wooing tongue
Save thee, bright Glory's bride.

CORINNA! thine own hand has traced

Thy melancholy fate,

Though by earth's noblest triumphs graced, Bliss waits not on the great:

Only in lowly places sleep

Life's flowers of sweet perfume,

And they who climb Fame's mountain-steep Must mourn their own high doom.

BALLAD.

THE maiden sat at her busy wheel,
Her heart was light and free,
And ever in cheerful song broke forth
Her bosom's harmless glee.

Her song was in mockery of Love,
And oft I heard her say,

"The gather'd rose, and the stolen heart
Can charm but for a day."

I look'd on the maiden's rosy cheek,
And her lip so full and bright,

And I sigh'd to think that the traitor, Love,
Should conquer a heart so light:

But she thought not of future days of wo,
While she caroll'd in tones so gay;
"The gather'd rose and the stolen heart
Can charm but for a day."

A year pass'd on, and again I stood
By the humble cottage-door;
The maid sat at her busy wheel,

But her look was blithe no more;
The big tear stood in her downcast eye,
And with sighs I heard her say,
"The gather'd rose and the stolen heart
Can charm but for a day."

O! well I knew what had dimm'd her eye,
And made her cheek so pale;

The maid had forgotten her early song,

While she listen'd to Love's soft tale. She had tasted the sweets of his poison'd cup, It had wasted her life away:

And the stolen heart, like the gather'd rose, Had charm'd but for a day.

SONNET.

He who has travell'd through some weary day,
And reach'd at summer eve a green hill-side,
Whence he can see, now veil'd in twilight gray,
The dreary path through which he lately hied,
While o'er his onward road the setting sun
Sheds its sweet beam on every wayside flower;
Forgets his labours ere the goal be won,

And in his heart enjoys the quiet hour:
Father and mother, be it so with you!
While memory's pleasant twilight shades be past,
May hope illume the way ye still pursue,

And each new scene seem brighter than the last; Thus, wending on toward sunset, may ye find Life's lengthening shadows ever cast behind.

THE ancestors of WHITTIER settled at an early period in the town of Haverhill, on the banks of the Merrimack River, in Massachusetts. They were Quakers, and some of them suffered from the "sharp laws" which the fierce Independents enacted against these "devil-driven heretics," as they are styled in the "Magnalia" of COTTON MATHER. The poet was born in the year 1808, on the spot inhabited by his family for four or five generations; and until he was eighteen years of age, his time was principally passed in the district schools, and in aiding his father on the farm. His nineteenth year was spent at a Latin school, and in 1828 he went to Boston to conduct "The American Manufacturer," a gazette established to advocate a protective tariff. He had previously won some reputation as a writer by various contributions, in prose and verse, to the newspapers printed in his native town, and in Newburyport, and the ability with which he managed the "Manufacturer," now made his name familiar throughout the country. In 1830 he went to Hartford, in Connecticut, to take charge of the "New England Weekly Review." He remained here about two years, during which he was an ardent politician, of what was then called the National Republican school, and devoted but little attention to literature. He published, however, in this period his "Legends of New England," a collection of poems and prose sketches, founded on events in the early history of the country; wrote the memoir of his friend BRAINARD, prefixed to the collection of his writings printed in 1830; and several poems which appeared in the “ Weekly Review."

In 1831, WHITTIER returned to Haverhill, where he was for five or six years engaged in agricultural pursuits. He represented that town in the legislature in the sessions of 1835 and 1836, and declined a reëlection in 1837. 66 Mogg Megone,” his longest poem, was first published in 1836. He regarded the story of the hero only as a framework for sketches of the scenery and of the primitive settlers of Massachusetts and the adjacent states. In portraying the Indian character, he followed as closely as was practicable the rough but natural delineations of CHURCH, MAYHEW, CHARLEVOIX, and ROGER WILLIAMS, and therefore discarded much of the romance which more modern writers have thrown around the red-man's life. In this, as well as in some of his minor poems, and in the "Legends of New England," he has depicted with honesty the intolerant spirit and the superstitions of the early colonists. That he would willingly do injustice to their memories, none who know him or his works will be easily persuaded. He is himself a son of New England, and in the following lines, from "Moll Pitcher,"

has well expressed his feelings toward her and her founders:

"Land of the forest and the rock

Of dark-blue lake and mighty river-
Of mountains rear'd aloft to mock
The storm's career, the lightning's shock-
My own green land forever!
Land of the beautiful and brave-
The freeman's home-the martyr's grave-
The nursery of giant men,

Whose deeds have link'd with every glen,
And every hill, and every stream,
The romance of some warrior-dream!
O! never may a son of thine,
Where'er his wandering steps incline,
Forget the sky which bent above
His childhood like a dream of love,
The stream beneath the green hill flowing,
The broad-arm'd trees above it growing,
The clear breeze through the foliage blowing;
Or hear, unmoved, the taunt of scorn
Breathed o'er the brave New England born;
Or mark the stranger's jaguar-hand
Disturb the ashes of thy dead,
The buried glory of a land

Whose soil with noble blood is red,
And sanctified in every part,—

Nor feel resentment, like a brand,
Unsheathing from his fiery heart!
O! greener hills may catch the sun
Beneath the glorious heaven of France;
And streams, rejoicing as they run

Like life beneath the day-beam's glance,
May wander where the orange-bough
With golden fruit is bending low;
And there may bend a brighter sky
O'er green and classic Italy-
And pillar'd fane and ancient grave
Bear record of another time,
And over shaft and architrave

The green, luxuriant ivy climb;
And far toward the rising sun

The palm may shake its leaves on high,
Where flowers are opening, one by one,
Like stars upon the twilight sky;
And breezes soft as sighs of love

Above the broad banana stray,
And through the Brahmin's sacred grove
A thousand bright-hued pinions play!
Yet unto thee, New England, still
Thy wandering sons shall stretch their arms,
And thy rude chart of rock and hill

Seem dearer than the land of palms ;
Thy massy oak and mountain-pine

More welcome than the banyan's shade;
And every free, blue stream of thine
Seem richer than the golden bed
Of oriental waves, which glow

And sparkle with the wealth below!"

In 1836 WHITTIER was elected one of the secretaries of the American Anti-Slavery Society, and much of his time since then has been passed in its service. Many of his best poems relate to slavery. His productions are all distinguished for manly vigour of thought and language, and they breathe the true spirit of liberty.