ANNE.

THERE is a pensiveness in quiet ANNE,
A mournful drooping of the full, gray eye,
As if she had shook hands with Misery,
And known some care since her short life began;
Her cheek is seriously pale, nigh wan,

And, though of cheerfulness there is no lack,
You feel as if she must be dress'd in black;
Yet is she not of those who, all they can,
Strive to be gay, and, striving, seem most sad,-
Hers is not grief, but silent soberness;
You would be startled if you saw her glad,
And startled if you saw her weep, no less;
She walks through life, as, on the Sabbath-day,
She decorously glides to church to pray.

THE WAY OF LIFE.

I SAW a gate: a harsh voice spake and said, "This is the gate of Life;" above was writ, "Leave hope behind, all ye who enter it ;" Then shrank my heart within itself for dread; But, softer than the summer rain is shed, Words dropp'd upon my soul and they did say, "Fear nothing, Faith shall save thee, watch and So, without fear I lifted up my head, And lo! that writing was not, one fair word Was carven in its stead, and it was "Love." Then rain'd once more those sweet tones from above With healing on their wings: I humbly heard, "I am the Life, ask and it shall be given! I am the Way, by me ye enter Heaven!"

TO A FRIEND.

[pray!"

My friend, adown life's valley, hand in hand,
With grateful change of grave and merry speech,
Or song, our hearts unlocking each to each,
We'll journey onward to the silent land;
And when stern Death shall loose that loving band,
Taking in his cold hand a hand of ours,
The one shall strew the other's grave with flowers,
Nor shall his heart a moment be unmann'd.
My friend and brother! if thou goest first,
Wilt thou no more revisit me below?
Yea, when my heart seems happy causelessly
And swells, not dreaming why, as it would burst
With joy unspeakable,-my soul shall know
That thou, unseen, art bending over me.

THE POET.

POET! who sittest in thy pleasant room,
Warming thy heart with idle thoughts of love,
And of a holy life that leads above,

Striving to keep life's spring-flowers still in bloom,
And lingering to snuff their fresh perfume,-
O, there were other duties meant for thee
Than to sit down in peacefulness and Be!
O, there are brother-hearts that dwell in gloom,
Souls loathsome, foul, and black with daily sin,
So crusted o'er with baseness, that no ray
Of Heaven's blessed light may enter in!
Come down, then, to the hot and dusty way,
And lead them back to hope and peace again,-
For, save in act, thy love is all in vain.

GREEN MOUNTAINS.

YE mountains, that far off lift up your heads,
Seen dimly through their canopies of blue,
The shade of my unrestful spirit sheds
Distance-created beauty over you;

I am not well content with this far view;
How may I know what foot of loved one treads
Your rocks moss-grown and sun-dried torrent beds?
We should love all things better, if we knew
What claims the meanest have upon our hearts;
Perchance even now some eye, that would be bright
To meet my own, looks on your mist-robed forms;
Perchance your grandeur a deep joy imparts
To souls that have encircled mine with light,-
O, brother-heart, with thee my spirit warms!

THE DEAD.

To the dark, narrow house when loved ones go,
Whence no steps outward turn, whose silent door
None but the sexton knocks at any more,
Are they not sometimes with us yet below?
The longings of the soul would tell us so;
Although, so pure and fine their being's essence,
Our bodily eyes are witless of their presence;
Yet not within the tomb their spirits glow,
Like wizard lamps pent up, but whensoever
With great thoughts worthy of their high behests
Our souls are fill'd, those bright ones with us be,
As, in the patriarch's tent, his angel guests:-
O, let us live so worthily, that never
We may be far from that blest company!

LOVE.

MUCH had I mused of love, and in my soul
There was one chamber where I dared not look,
So much its dark and dreary voidness shook
My spirit, feeling that I was not whole:
All my deep longings flow'd toward one goal
For long, long years, but were not answered,
Till hope was drooping, faith wellnigh stone-dead,
And I was still a blind, earth-delving mole:
Yet did I know that God was wise and good,
And would fulfil my being late or soon;
Nor was such thought in vain, for, seeing thee,
Great Love rose up, as, o'er a black pine-wood,
Round, bright, and clear, upstarteth the full moon,
Filling my soul with glory utterly.

CAROLINE.

A STAIDNESS Sobers o'er her pretty face,
Which something but ill-hidden in her eyes,
And a quaint look about her lips denies;
A lingering love of girlhood you can trace
In her check'd laugh and half-restrained pace;
And, when she bears herself most womanly,
It seems as if a watchful mother's eye
Kept down with sobering glance her childish grace:
Yet oftentimes her nature gushes free
As water, long held back by little hands
Within a pump, and let forth suddenly;
Until, her task remembering, she stands
A moment silent, smiling doubtfully,

Then laughs aloud, and scorns her hated bands.

AMELIA B. COPPUCK, now Mrs. WELBY, was born in the small town of St. Michaels, in Maryland. When she was about fourteen years of age, her father, who is a respectable mechanic, removed to Lexington, and afterward to Louisville, in Kentucky, where, in 1838, she was married to Mr. GEORGE B. WELBY.

Most of her poetry has been published during the last four years, under the signature of "AMELIA,"

in the "Louisville Journal," edited by GEORGE D. PRENTICE. It has a musical flow and harmony, and the ideas are often poetical; but occasionally unmeaning epithets, lengthening out a line or a verse, remind us that the writer is not a scholarlike artist. She has feeling, and fancy, and pure sentiment-the highest qualities that ever distinguish the poetry of women. She is now but about twenty years of age.

THE PRESENCE OF GOD.

O, THOU who flingst so fair a robe

Of clouds around the hills untrodThose mountain-pillars of the globe Whose peaks sustain thy throne, O GOD! All glittering round the sunset skies,

Their fleecy wings are lightly furl'd,
As if to shade from mortal eyes

The glories of yon upper world;
There, while the evening star upholds
In one bright spot, their purple folds,
My spirit lifts its silent prayer,
For Thou, O God of love, art there.

The summer-flowers, the fair, the sweet
Up-springing freely from the sod,
In whose soft looks we seem to meet
At every step, thy smiles, O GOD!
The humblest soul their sweetness shares,
They bloom in palace-hall, or cot,—
Give me, O LORD, a heart like theirs,
Contented with my lowly lot;
Within their pure, ambrosial bells
In odours sweet thy spirit dwells.
Their breath may seem to scent the air-
"Tis thine, O God! for Thou art there.

Hark! from yon casement, low and dim,
What sounds are these that fill the breeze?
It is the peasant's evening hymn

Arrests the fisher on the seas;
The old man leans his silver hairs
Upon his light suspended oar,
Until those soft, delicious airs

Have died like ripples on the shore.
Why do his eyes in softness roll?
What melts the manhood from his soul?
His heart is fill'd with peace and prayer,
For Thou, O God, art with him there.

The birds among the summer blooms
Pour forth to Thee their hymns of love,
When, trembling on uplifted plumes,

They leave the earth and soar above;

We hear their sweet, familiar airs
Where'er a sunny spot is found:
How lovely is a life like theirs,

Diffusing sweetness all around!
From clime to clime, from pole to pole,
Their sweetest anthems softly roll;
Till, melting on the realms of air,
They reach thy throne in grateful prayer.
The stars-those floating isles of light,
Round which the clouds unfurl their sails,
Pure as a woman's robe of white

That trembles round the form it veils,They touch the heart as with a spell,

Yet set the soaring fancy free:
And, O! how sweet the tales they tell

Of faith, of peace, of love, and Thee.
Each raging storm that wildly blows,
Each balmy breeze that lifts the rose,
Sublimely grand, or softly fair-
They speak of thee, for Thou art there.
The spirit, oft oppress'd with doubt,

May strive to cast thee from its thought;
But who can shut thy presence out,
Thou mighty Guest that com'st unsought!
In spite of all our cold resolves,

Magnetic-like, where'er we be,
Still, still the thoughtful heart revolves,
And points, all trembling, up to thee.
We cannot shield a troubled breast
Beneath the confines of the blest-
Above, below, on earth, in air,
For Thou, the living Gon, art there.
Yet, far beyond the clouds outspread,

Where soaring fancy oft hath been,
There is a land where Thou hast said
The pure in heart shall enter in;
There, in those realms so calmly bright,
How many a loved and gentle one
Bathe their soft plumes in living light,
That sparkles from thy radiant throne!
There, souls once soft and sad as ours
Look up and sing mid fadeless flowers;
They dream no more of grief and care,
For Thou, the GoD of peace, art there.

TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND.

WHEN shines the star, by thee loved best,
Upon these soft, delicious eves,
Lighting the ring-dove to her nest,

Where trembling stir the darkling leaves; When flings the wave its crest of foam

Above the shadowy-mantled seas: A softness o'er my heart doth come, Linking thy memory with these; For if, amid those orbs that roll,

Thou hast at times a thought of me, For every one that stirs thy soul

A thousand stir my own of thee. Even now thy dear remember'd eyes,

Fill'd up with floods of radiant light, Seem bending from the twilight skies, Outshining all the stars of night: And thy young face, divinely fair,

Like a bright cloud, seems melting through, While low, sweet whispers fill the air,

Making my own lips whisper too; For never does the soft south wind

Steal o'er the hush'd and lonely sea, But it awakens in my mind

A thousand memories of thee.

O! could I, while these hours of dreams
Are gathering o'er the silent hills,
While every breeze a minstrel seems,
And every leaf a heart that thrills,
Steal all unseen to some hush'd place,

And, kneeling 'neath those burning orbs,
Forever gaze on thy sweet face,

Till seeing every sense absorbs;
And singling out, each blessed even,
The star that earliest lights the sea,
Forget another shines in heaven
While shines the one beloved by thee.

Lost one! companion of the blest,

Thou, who in purer air dost dwell,
Ere froze the life-drops in thy breast,

Or fled thy soul its mystic cell,
We pass'd on earth such hours of bliss
As none but kindred hearts can know,
And, happy in a world like this,

But dream'd of that to which we go,
Till thou wert call'd in thy young years
To wander o'er that shoreless sea,
Where, like a mist, time disappears,
Melting into eternity.

I'm thinking of some sunny hours,

That shone out goldenly in June,
When birds were singing 'mong the flowers,
With wild, sweet voices all in tune
When o'er thy locks of paly gold

Flow'd thy transparent veil away,
Till 'neath each snow-white trembling fold
The Eden of thy bosom lay;
And, shelter'd 'neath its dark-fringed lid
Till raised from thence in girlish glee,
How modestly thy glance lay hid

From the fond glances bent on thee.

There are some hours that pass so soon

Our spell-touch'd hearts scarce know they end; And so it was with that sweet June,

Ere thou wert lost, my gentle friend!
O! how I'll watch each flower that closes
Through autumn's soft and breezy reign,
Till summer-blooms restore the roses,

And merry June shall come again!
But, ah! while float its sunny hours
O'er fragrant shore and trembling sea,
Missing thy face among the flowers,
How my full heart will mourn for thee!

TO A SEA-SHELL.

SHELL of the bright sea-waves!

What is it that we hear in thy sad moan?
Is this unceasing music all thine own,
Lute of the ocean-caves!

Or, does some spirit dwell

In the deep windings of thy chamber dim,
Breathing forever, in its mournful hymn,
Of ocean's anthem swell?

Wert thou a murmurer long

In crystal palaces beneath the seas,
Ere, on the bright air, thou hadst heard the breeze
Pour its full tide of song?

Another thing with thee

Are there not gorgeous cities in the deep,
Buried with flashing gems that darkly sleep,
Hid by the mighty sea?

And say, O lone sea-shell,

Are there not costly things, and sweet perfumes, Scatter'd in waste o'er that sea-gulf of tombs ? Hush thy low moan, and tell.

But yet, and more than all

Has not each foaming wave in fury toss'd
O'er earth's most beautiful, the brave, the lost,
Like a dark funeral pall?

"Tis vain-thou answerest not! Thou hast no voice to whisper of the dead— 'Tis ours alone, with sighs, like odours shed, To hold them unforgot!

Thine is as sad a strain

As if the spirit in thy hidden cell
Pined to be with the many things that dwell
In the wild, restless main.

And yet, there is no sound

Upon the waters, whisper'd by the waves,
But seemeth like a wail from many graves,
Thrilling the air around.

The earth, O moaning shell!
The earth hath melodies more sweet than these,
The music-gush of rills, the hum of bees,
Heard in each blossom's bell.

Are not these tones of earth, The rustling foliage with its shivering leaves, Sweeter than sounds that e'en in moonlight eves Upon the seas have birth?

Alas! thou still wilt moanThou'rt like the heart that wastes itself in sighs, E'en when amid bewildering melodies,

If parted from its own.

MY SISTERS.

LIKE flowers that softly bloom together,
Upon one fair and fragile stem,
Mingling their sweets in sunny weather,
Ere strange rude hands have parted them:
So were we link'd unto each other,

Sweet sisters! in our childish hours,
For then one fond and gentle mother

To us was like the stem to flowers.
She was the golden thread that bound us
In one bright chain together here,
Till Death unloosed the cord around us,
And we were sever'd far and near.
The floweret's stem, when broke or shatter'd,
Must cast its blossoms to the wind,
Yet round the buds, though widely scatter'd,
The same soft perfume still we find;
And thus, although the tie is broken

That link'd us round our mother's knee,
The memory of words we've spoken

When we were children light and free, Will, like the perfume of each blossom, Live in our hearts where'er we roam, As when we slept on one fond bosom,

And dwelt within one happy home.

I know that changes have come o'er us:
Sweet sisters! we are not the same,
For different paths now lie before us,

And all three have a different name;
And yet, if Sorrow's dimming fingers

Have shadow'd o'er each youthful brow,
So much of light around them lingers,
I cannot trace those shadows now.
Ye both have those who love ye only,
Whose dearest hopes are round ye thrown-
While, like a stream that wanders lonely,
Am I, the youngest, wildest one.
My heart is like the wind that beareth

Sweet scents upon its unseen wing-
The wind! that for no creature careth,
Yet stealeth sweets from every thing;
It hath rich thoughts forever leaping

Up, like the waves of flashing seas, That with their music still are keeping Soft time with every fitful breeze; Each leaf that in the bright air quivers, The sounds from hidden solitudes, And the deep flow of far-off rivers,

And the loud rush of many floods: All these, and more, stir in my bosom Feelings that make my spirit glad, Like dew-drops shaken in a blossom,

And yet there is a something sad

Mix'd with those thoughts, like clouds, that hover Above us in the quiet air,

Veiling the moon's pale beauty over

Like a dark spirit brooding there.

But, sisters! those wild thoughts were never
Yours, for ye would not love like me

To gaze upon the stars forever,

To hear the wind's wild melody.

Ye'd rather look on smiling faces,

And linger round a cheerful hearth,
Than mark the stars' bright hiding-places
As they peep out upon the earth.
But, sisters! as the stars of even

Shrink from day's golden flashing eye,
And, melting in the depths of heaven,
Veil their soft beams within the sky:
So will we pass, the joyous-hearted,

The fond, the young, like stars that wane, Till every link of earth be parted, To form in heaven one mystic chain.

"I KNOW THAT THY SPIRIT."

I KNOW that thy spirit looks radiantly down From yon beautiful orb of the west,

For a sound and a sign have been set in my own,
That tell of the place of thy rest;

For I gaze on the star that we talk'd of so oft,
As our glances would heavenward rove,
When thy step was on earth, and thy bosom was
soft

With a sense of delight and of love.

The dreams that were laid on thy shadowless brow
Were pure as a feeling unborn,

And the tone of thy voice was as pleasant and low
As a bird's in a pleasant spring morn;
Such a heaven of purity dwelt in thy breast,
Such a world of bright thoughts in thy soul,
That naught could have made thee more lovely
or blest,

So bright was the beautiful whole.

But, now o'er thy breast in the hush of the tomb Are folded thy pale graceful arms,

While the midnight of death, like a garment of gloom,

Hangs over that bosom's young charms; And pale, pale, alas! is thy rosy lip now, Its melody broken and gone;

And cold is the young heart whose sweet dreams below

Were of summer, of summer alone,

Yet the rise and the fall of thine eyelids of snow
O'er their blue orbs so mournfully meek,
And the delicate blush that would vanish and glow
Through the light of thy transparent cheek,
And thy tresses all put from thy forehead away—
These, these on my memory rise

As I gaze on yon bright orb whose beautiful ray
Hath so often been blest by thine eyes.

The blue-girdled stars and the soft dreamy air
Divide thy fair spirit and mine:

Yet I look in my heart, and a something is there
That links it in feeling to thine:

The glow of the sunset, the voice of the breeze,
As it cradles itself on the sea,

Are dear to my bosom, for moments like these
Are sacred to memory and thee.

m

I DID not notice LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON in that part of this volume in which, according to the chronological order which has governed me, her biography should have appeared, because it seemed most proper to consider together the remarkable children of whom she was the first born and the first to die. The verses which she wrote, like those of her younger sister, are extraordinary, considered as the productions of so young a person, however little they might deserve regard if presented as the effusions of a matured and well-educated mind.

Those who have read the preceding memoirs may remember that an unusual precocity of genius has been frequently exhibited in this country. The cases of LUCRETIA and MARGARET DAVIDSON are doubtless more interesting than any to which I have already alluded, but they are not the most wonderful that have been known in America. About two years ago I was shown, by one of the house of HARPER and BROTHERS, the publishers, some verses by a girl but eight years of age, the daughter of a gentleman in Connecticut-that seemed superior to any composed by the DAVIDSONS; and I have heard of other prodigies no less remarkable. Greatness is not often developed in childhood, and where a strange precocity is observable, it is generally but a premature blossoming of the mind, We cannot always decide to even our own satisfaction, whether it is so, but as the writings of the subjects of this notice, when they were from nine to fifteen years of age, exhibited no progress, it is not unreasonable to suppose that, like the wonderful boy ZERAH COLBURN, of Vermont, whose arithmetical calculations many years ago astonished the world, they would have possessed in their physical maturity no high intellectual qualities.

The father of LUCRETIA and MARGARET DAVIDSON was a physician. Their mother's maiden name was MARGARET MILLER. She was a woman of an ardent temperament and an affectionate disposition, and had been carefully educated. LUCRETIA was born in the village of Plattsburgh, in New York, on the twenty-seventh of September, 1808. In her infancy she was exceedingly fragile, but she grew stronger when about eighteen months old, and though less vigorous than most children of her age, suffered little for several years from sickness. She learned the alphabet in her third year, and at four was sent to a public school, where she was taught to read and to form letters in sand, after the Lancasterian system. As soon as she could read, her time was devoted to the little books that were given to her, and to composition. Her mother at one time wishing to write a letter, found that a quire or more of paper had disappeared from the place where writing implements were kept, and when she made inquiries in regard to it, the child came forward, and acknowledged that

she had "used it." As Mrs. DAVIDSON knew she had not been taught to write, she was surprised, and inquired in what manner it had been destroyed. LUCRETIA burst into tears, and replied that she did not like to tell." The question was not urged. From that time the paper continued to disappear, and she was frequently observed with little blank books, and pens, and ink, sedulously shunning observation. At length, when she was about six years old, her mother found hidden in a closet, rarely opened, a parcel of papers which proved to be her manuscript books. On one side of each leaf was an artfully sketched picture, and on the other, in rudely formed letters, were poetical explanations.

From this time she acquired knowledge very rapidly, studying intensely at school, and reading in every leisure moment at home. When about twelve years of age she accompanied her father to a celebration of the birth-night of Washington. She had studied the history of the father of his country, and the scene awakened her enthusiasm. The next day an older sister found her absorbed in writing. She had drawn an urn, and written two stanzas beneath it. They were shown to her mother, who expressed her delight with such animation that the child immediately added the concluding verses, and returned with the poem as it is printed in her "Remains"

And does a Hero's dust lie here?
Columbia! gaze and drop a tear!
His country's and the orphan's friend,
See thousands o'er his ashes bend!

Among the heroes of the age,
He was the warrior and the sage!
He left a train of glory bright
Which never will be hid in night.

The toils of war and danger past,
He reaps a rich reward at last;
His pure soul mounts on cherub's wings,
And now with saints and angels sings.

The brightest on the list of fame,
In golden letters shines his name;
Her trump shall sound it through the world,
And the striped banner ne'er be furl'd!

And every sex, and every age,
From lisping boy, to learned sage,
The widow, and her orphan son,
Revere the name of WASHINGTON.

She continued to write with much industry from this period. In the summer of 1823, her health being very feeble, she was withdrawn from school, and sent on a visit to some friends in Canada. In Montreal she was delighted with the public buildings, martial parades, pictures, and other novel sights, and she returned to Plattsburgh with renovated health. Her sister MARGARET was born on the twenty-sixth of March, 1823, and a few