"Say wilt thou view yon mountains blue,
With all the love we late have conn'd them,
Led by a spell I need not tell,

To think on him that's far beyond them?"

He paus'd, and pressed her offered hand,

As eager in his arms he caught her;

While the twilight glanc'd, and the lone star danc'd
On the dimpling calm of Bala-water.

It was all in the merry Christmas time,

When up the chief, and spoke his daughter,

While the breakers white rode the rude waves height

On the rough, rough tide of Bala-water.

Itis thy birth day, my darling child.

And pass'd have thrice sev'n winters o'er thee;

And the feast shall delight my hall to night,

And lords and barons bow before thee.

"I learn that a lord of Powysland

Will grace our feast with kind compliance;
And though high in birth, and large in worth,
He seeks thy heart in love's alliance.

"And many a peer will, I ween, be here,
And many a knight to thy hand aspiring;
But thy will shall be free, my child, for me,
To use it at thy own desiring."

Then she tenderly kiss'd her hoary sire,

And a bright tear fell on her cheek as he felt it;

Like the drop that flows on the morning rose,

From the silvery frost as the sunbeams melt it.

The lady went up to her own loved tower,

Where her maids with gems and armlets fraught her;
While the harps rang loud, and the courtly crowd

Fill'd the glittering hall of Bala-water.

Like the queen of night she appeared-so bright,

So chastely cold, yet courteous ever;

Said to each knight, "I mean no slight,

But he's not here that wins my favour."

1

The celebrated Sir Walter himself never caused his minstre lays to flow more sweetly or fancifully, than these of the unknown songstress of the Susquehanna.

VOL. I.-No. II.

21

The piece entitled "Fancy's Bark and Pleasure' Isle," is another sweet effusion, full of poetical imagery. It is not long, but we can only afford space for an extract.

Freighted deep with splendid treasure,

Steering for the Isle of Pleasure,

Through the waves of emerald green,

Fancy's airy bark is seen.

Zephyrs bringing on their wings,

Never varying gentle gales;

Around her bow the mermaid sings,

Sea-birds frolic in her sails!

Now, the promised port in view,
See the joyful crowd advancing,

All to hail the happy crew

Swains are singing, nymphs are dancing.

We know not how that plaintive tenderness so natural to the female heart when separated from the object of its love, could be more pathetically and beautifully expressed than in the following lines.

Full oft my heart, by sorrow worn,

My dearest wishes crost,

My thoughts, dejected and forlorn,

In melancholy lost

Seeks in false spirits some relief,

Some momentary charm,

Like light that plays round marbled grief,

It shines, but cannot warm.

One of the longest, and perhaps one of the most amusing pieces in the collection, is a fairy tale, called, "The Elfin Bride." It is wild and fantastic, as all fairy tales are, and the language is simple, lively and sweet to a degree which they seldom reach. Its plot reminds us of the tale of the "Bonnie Killmenie," by James Hogg. But it is neither so lofty in its flights, nor so extravagant and absurd in its incidents, as the effusion of the "Etrick Shepherd." There are scattered through this piece several delicate touches of the picturesque in imagery, which

could have been produced by none but a mind truly poetical in its conceptions.

The following few detached stanzas may serve as a specimen. We may remark, that the letter D, is attached to this piece by way of signature; from which circumstance, if it were not for the similarity of its style with the rest of the volume, we should suppose it the production of another hand.

The evening was calm, and the air was balm,
And the sun's upper rim was bright,

And it melted away, o'er the mountains gray,
In a line of burning light.

The first was a maid on whose tinted cheek,

Love's earliest dawn, was seen,

And her fresh robe's studs, were of young rose-buds,
Ere the red peep'd through the green.

However much it may expose our taste to the ridicule of the small wits, and the exquisite critics, we assure our readers that, in this unpretending volume, we have met with passages of which we would rather be the author, than of any thing we have seen from Woodsworth or Coleridge, of England; or their counterparts, Woodworth and Osborne, of New York. These men have received their full measure of credit for any thing good they may have produced; so that they need not our eulogy. But the humble poetess of the Susquehanna, sweetly as she has sung, has sung

only to the shades. Obscurity has been her lot. Her rural neighbours alone, have heard her strains. They may have honoured her for them; but those who in the present state of society, can alone confer perpetuity to a name, the rich and the gay, the circles of the drawing room and the parlour, have never listened to the tones of her sylvan harp, and know not how much she is entitled to praise.

But obscurity does not seem to excite any painful sensation in the mind of this unambitious daughter of the Muses. Her effusions contain no complaints of the world's disregard. She seems to sing for the enjoyment which her songs afford to herself, and the rural circle of friends in which she moves. That her productions should ever excite attention in the great world, she appears to have had such little expectation, that she has not even secured the copy-right of the collection she has published. We mention this as a hint to her, in case she should again commit any of her works to the press; for should she do so, however humble her own opinion of them may be, it may happen that some mercenary booksellers may differ from her.

Although we have conscientiously spoken so highly of these poems, it must not be supposed that we have discovered no faults in them. We have, indeed, discovered many, and some too of a palpable nature, such as offences against grammar, false numbers, and even (in one or two instances,) false rhymes. But surely no advocate of the Byronian style will find fault with these; for, where this writer offends once in these particulars, we have no hesitation in saying that the author of Don Juan offends a hundred times, in the same number of verses.

On the whole, however, we do not find in these poems sweet and pleasing as they arc, any of that bold originality of thought, or glowing strength of expression, which is characteristic of first-rate poetry, and which none but the favoured few, whom heaven destines to immortal fame, can successfully infuse into their productions. But although our author wants the polish of Campbell, the brilliancy of Moore, the pathos of our own Brooks, and the vigor of Byron, when he chooses to exert it; yet even in these qualities, we believe, that there are but few others

of our contemporary poets to whom she is much inferior. To say the least of the volume she has given us, it is the production of an elegant and feeling mind, accustomed to cherish the finer affections of social life, and to indulge in the romantic reveries of a poetical imagination.

We shall conclude this notice, by extracting the following verses, addressed

TO A MOTHER.

The sister seasons hand in hand
Have danced a merry round,
And spring again, with all her charms,
And budding sweets, is found.

The infant year again renews
A mother's promised joy,
For intellectual blossoms mark
The life-spring of her boy.

Each day, each hour, a kindling ray,

Some blushing floweret opes,

And as the sun the lily gilds,

So shine a mother's hopes.

She sees, through watchful, glist'ning tears,
The mental leaves unfold,

Like flowers silver'd o'er with dew,
Ere noon has turn'd them gold.

O happy youth! sweet morn of life!
Like incense breathing May,
Soft as the plumage of the dore,

And varied as its ray!

Ah! who would wish to check the breeze

That plays so sweet along

The waters of that soft blue lake,

Or wish the current strong!

Let it shine on in heaven's own light,

Its own ethereal blue,

The only shade a fleecy cloud

Warmed by a sunny hue!