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.

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

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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

days afterward, while holding the infant in her lap, she wrote the following lines:

Sweet babe! I cannot hope that thou 'It be freed
From woes, to all since earliest time decreed;
But may'st thou be with resignation bless'd,
To bear each evil howsoe'er distress'd.
May Hope her anchor lend amid the storm,
And o'er the tempest rear her angel form;
May sweet Benevolence, whose words are peace,
To the rude whirlwind softly whisper-cease!
And may Religion, Heaven's own darling child,
Teach thee at human cares and griefs to smile;
Teach thee to look beyond that world of wo,
To Heaven's high fount whence mercies ever flow.
And when this vale of years is safely pass'd,
When death's dark curtain shuts the scene at last,
May thy freed spirit leave this earthly sod,
And fly to seek the bosom of thy God.

In the summer of 1824 she finished her longest poem, "Amir Khan," and in the autumn of the same year was sent to the seminary of Mrs. WILLARD, at Troy, where she remained during the winter. In May, 1825, after spending several weeks at home, she was transferred to a boardingschool at Albany, and here her health, which had before been slightly affected, rapidly declined. In company with her mother, and Mr. Moss KENT, a gentleman of fortune, who had undertaken to defray the costs of her education, she returned to Plattsburgh in July, and died there on the twentyseventh of August, one month before her seventeenth birth-day. She retained, until her death, the purity and simplicity of childhood, and died in the confident hope of a blissful immortality.

Soon after her death, her poems and prose writings were published, with a memoir by Mr. S. F. B. MORSE, of New York, and an elaborate biography of her life and character has since been written by Miss C. M. SEDGWICK, the author of "Hope Leslie," etc. The following verses are among the most perfect she produced. They were addressed to her sister, Mrs. TOWNSEND, in her fifteenth year:

When evening spreads her shades around,
And darkness fills the arch of heaven;

When not a murmur, not a sound

To Fancy's sportive ear is given;
When the broad orb of heaven is bright,
And looks around with golden eye;
When Nature, soften'd by her light,
Seems calmly, solemnly to lie;

Then, when our thoughts are raised above
This world, and all this world can give:
O, sister, sing the song I love,

And tears of gratitude receive.
The song which thrills my bosom's core,
And hovering, trembles, half-afraid;
O, sister, sing the song once more
Which ne'er for mortal ear was made.
"Twere almost sacrilege to sing

Those notes amid the glare of day;
Notes borne by angels' purest wing,
And wafted by their breath away.
When sleeping in my grass-grown bed,
Shouldst thou still linger here above,
Wilt thou not kneel beside my head,
And, sister, sing the song I love?

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In her sixteenth year she wrote three "prophecies," of which the following is one:

Let me gaze awhile on that marble brow,

On that full, dark eye, on that cheek's warm glow;

Let me gaze for a moment, that, ere I die,

I may read thee, maiden, a prophecy.
That brow may beam in glory awhile;

That cheek may bloom, and that lip may smile:
That full, dark eye may brightly beam

In life's gay morn, in hope's young dream;
But clouds shall darken that brow of snow,
And sorrow blight thy bosom's glow.

I know by that spirit so haughty and high,

I know by that brightly-flashing eye,

That, maiden, there's that within thy breast,
Which hath mark'd thee out for a soul unbless'd:
The strife of love with pride shall wring
Thy youthful bosom's tenderest string;
And the cup of sorrow, mingled for thee,
Shall be drain'd to the dregs in agony.
Yes, maiden, yes, I read in thine eye
A dark, and a doubtful prophecy.

Thou shalt love, and that love shall be thy curse;
Thou wilt need no heavier, thou shalt feel no worse.

I see the cloud and the tempest near;
The voice of the troubled tide I hear;
The torrent of sorrow, the sea of grief,
The rushing waves of a wretched life;
Thy bosom's bark on the surge I see,

And, maiden, thy loved one is there with thee.
Not a star in the heavens, not a light on the wave!
Maiden, I've gazed on thine early grave.
When I am cold, and the hand of Death
Hath crown'd my brow with an icy wreath;
When the dew hangs damp on this motionless lip;
When this eye is closed in its long, last sleep,
Then, maiden, pause, when thy heart beats high,
And think on my last sad prophecy.

MARGARET DAVIDSON, at the time of the death of LUCRETIA, was not quite two years old. The event made a deep and lasting impression on her mind. She loved, when but three years old, to sit on a cushion at her mother's feet, listening to anecdotes of her sister's life, and details of the events which preceded her death, and would often exclaim, while her face beamed with mingled emotions, "O, I will try to fill her place-teach me to be like her!" She needed little teaching. In intelligence, and in literary progress, she surpassed LUCRETIA. When six years of age, she could read with fluency, and would sit by the bedside of her sick mother, reading with enthusiastic delight, and appropriate emphasis, the poetry of MILTON, COWPER, THOMSON, and other great authors, and marking, with discrimination, the passages with which she was most pleased. Between the sixth and seventh year of her age she entered on a general course of education, studying grammar, geography, history, and rhetoric; but her constitution had already begun to show symptoms of decay, which rendered it expedient to check her application. In her seventh summer she was taken to the Springs of Saratoga, the waters of which seemed to have a beneficial effect, and she afterward accompanied her parents to New York, with which city she was highly delighted. On her return to Plattsburgh, her strength was much increased, and she resumed her studies, with great assiduity. In the autumn of 1830, however, her health began to fail again, and it was thought proper for her and

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her mother to join Mrs. TOWNSEND, an elder sister, in an inland town of Canada. She remained here until 1833, when she had a severe attack of scarlet fever, and on her slow recovery it was determined to go again to New York. Her residence in the city was protracted until the summer heat became oppressive, and she expressed her yearnings for the banks of the Saranac, in the following lines, which are probably equal to any ever written by so young an author:

I would fly from the city, would fly from its care,
To my own native plants and my flowerets so fair,
To the cool grassy shade and the rivulet bright,
Which reflects the pale moon in its bosom of light;
Again would I view the old cottage so dear,
Where I sported a babe, without sorrow or fear;
I would leave this great city, so brilliant and gay,
For a peep at my home on this fair summer day.

I have friends whom I love, and would leave with regret,
But the love of my home, O! 't is tenderer yet;
There a sister reposes unconscious in death,

'Twas there she first drew, and there yielded her breath, A father I love is away from me now,

O could I but print a sweet kiss on his brow,
Or smooth the gray locks to my fond heart so dear,
How quickly would vanish each trace of a tear.
Attentive I listen to pleasure's gay call,

But my own happy home it is dearer than all.

The family soon after became temporary residents of the village of Ballston, near Saratoga; and in the autumn of 1835 of Ruremont, on the Sound, or East River, about four miles from New York. Here they remained, except at short intervals, until the summer of 1837, when they returned to Ballston. In the last two years MARGARET had suffered much from illness herself, and had lost by death her sister Mrs. TOWNSEND, and two brothers; and now her mother became alarmingly ill. As the season advanced, however, health seemed to revisit all the surviving members of the family, and MARGARET was as happy as at any period of her life. Early in 1828, Doctor DAVIDSON took a house in Saratoga, to which he removed on the first of May. Here she had an attack of bleeding from the lungs, but recovered, and when her brothers visited home from New York she returned with them to the city, and remained there several weeks. She reached Saratoga again in July; the bloom had for the last time left her cheeks; and she decayed gradually until the twenty-fifth of November, when her spirit returned to Gop. She was then but fifteen years and eight months old.

Her later poems do not seem to me superior to some written in her eleventh year, and the prose compositions included in the volume of her remains edited by Mr. IRVING, are not better than those of many girls of her age. One of her latest and most

perfect pieces is the dedication of a poem entitled "Leonora" to the "Spirit of her Sister Lucretia:"

O, thou, so early lost, so long deplored!

Pure spirit of my sister, be thou near! And while I touch this hallow'd harp of thine, Bend from the skies, sweet sister, bend and hear! For thee I pour this unaffected lay;

To thee these simple numbers all belong : For though thine earthly form has pass'd away, Thy memory still inspires my childish song. Take then this feeble tribute :-'tis thine ownThy fingers sweep my trembling heart-strings o'er, Arouse to harmony each buried tone,

And bid its waken'd music sleep no more! Long has thy voice been silent, and thy lyre Hung o'er thy grave, in death's unbroken rest; But when its last sweet tones were borne away One answering echo linger'd in my breast.

O! thou pure spirit! if thou hoverest near,
Accept these lines, unworthy though they be,
Faint echoes from thy fount of song divine,
By thee inspired, and dedicate to thee!
The following lines addressed to her mother, a few
days before her death, were the last she ever wrote:
O, mother, would the power were mine
To wake the strain thou lovest to hear,
And breathe each trembling new-born thought
Within thy fondly-listening ear,

As when in days of health and glee,
My hopes and fancies wander'd free.
But, mother, now a shade hath pass'd
Athwart my brightest visions here;
A cloud of darkest gloom hath wrapp'd
The remnant of my brief career;
No song, no echo can I win,
The sparkling fount hath dried within.
The torch of earthly hope burns dim,
And fancy spreads her wings no more,
And O, how vain and trivial seem

The pleasures that I prized before;
My soul, with trembling steps and slow,
Is struggling on through doubt and strife;
O, may it prove, as time rolls on,

The pathway to eternal life!
Then when my cares and fears are o'er,
I'll sing thee as in "days of yore."

I said that Hope had pass'd from earth,
'Twas but to fold her wings in heaven,
To whisper of the soul's new birth,

Of sinners saved and sins forgiven;
When mine are wash'd in tears away,
Then shall my spirit swell my lay.
When God shall guide my soul above,
By the soft chords of heavenly love-
When the vain cares of earth depart,
And tuneful voices swell my heart-
Then shall each word, each note I raise,
Burst forth in pealing hymns of praise,
And all not offer'd at His shrine,
Dear mother, I will place on thine.