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stained women of Lapland, who wrapped him in their furs, and ministered to his necessities with kind and gentle words of conpassion. Lovely to the home-sick Park seemed the dark maids of Sigo, as they sung their low and simple songs of welcome beside his bed, and sought to comfort the white stranger who had “no mother to bring him milk, and no wife to grind him corn.” Oh! talk as you may of beauty, as a thing to be chiselled upon marble or wrought on canvas, -speculate as you may upon its colors and outline,—what is it but an intellectual abstraction after all Z The heart feels a beauty of another kind,-looking through outward environments, it discovers a deeper and more real loveliness. This was well understood by the old painters. In their pictures of Mary, the virgin mother, the beauty which melts and subdues the gazer is that of the soul and the affections,—uniting the awe and the mystery of the mother's miraculous allotment with the inexpressible love, the unutterable tenderness, of young maternity, . —Heaven's crowning miracle with nature's sweetest and holiest instinct. And their pale Magdalens, holy with the look of sins forgiven, how the divine beauty of their penitence sinks into the heart! Do we not feel that the only real deformity is sin, and that goodness evermore hallows and sanctifies its dwelling-place?
EMMA. C. EMBURY.
AMoNg American female writers, Emma C. Embury takes no mean rank. She is the daughter of Dr. James R. Manly, an eminent physician of New York, and in 1828 was married to Daniel Embury, a gentleman of wealth, residing in Brooklyn, and much valued for his intellectual and social qualities, having the taste to appreciate the talents of his gifted wife, and the good sense to encourage and aid her in her literary pursuits. But these pursuits, happily, have never caused her to neglect the duties of a wife or a mother.
Mrs. Embury's published works are—Guido, and other Poems, by Ianthe; a volume on Female Education ; The Blind Girl, and other Tales ; Pictures of Early Life; Glimpses of Home Life, or Causes and Consequences; Nature” Gems, or American Wild Flowers; Lore's Token-Flowers; The Waldorf Family, or Grandfather's Legends. All her writings exhibit good sense, true cultivation, and healthy natural feeling, united to much refinement; and it is to be deeply lamented that a protracted illness has deprived her, for many years, of the physical and mental power requisite for literary pursuits, or even for domestic duties. Great nervous debility and paralysis have shattered her vigorous body and her noble mind, and have left only the gentle affections of her nature untouched.
THE WIDOW's wooer.
He wooes me with those honey'd words
He stands beside me, when I sing
He little knows what thoughts awake
Like lamps in Eastern sepulchres,
OH ! TELI, ME NOT OF LOFTY FATE.
Oh tell me not of lofty fate,
The bosom love leaves desolate
Wainly philosophy would soar,
The heart soon learns a sweeter lore
The cup may bear a poison'd draught,
But yet the chalice may be quaff'd,—
Man's sterner nature turns away
Wealth's glittering gifts, and pleasure's ray,
But woman knows one only dream,_
For on life's dark and sluggish stream
The MAIDEN SAT AT HER BUSY Wii EEL.
The maiden sat at her busy wheel,
I look'd on the maiden's rosy cheek,
A year pass'd on, and again I stood
Oh, well I knew what had dimm'd her eye
This gentleman is the author of a great number of unclaimed poems; and some of them, written many years ago, are still “going the rounds of the press,” both in this country and in Great Britain. They have never been collected into a volume, as they richly deserve to be, for they have not only been very popular, but they have received high praise from “mouths of wisest censure.” Mr. Benjamin has also written largely in prose; and many of his articles have appeared in the “North American Review,” the “New York Review,” the “American Monthly,” and other prominent magazines.
Mr. Benjamin was born in Demerara, South America, in the year 1809. His father was a highly-respected merchant, a native of New England, and his mother an English lady, closely allied to a noble family. Their son Park was sent to this country at a very tender age, under the care of an excellent female guardian. From the age of fourteen until his graduation from college, he resided chiefly in Boston and its vicinity. He studied law under the eminent Mr. Justice Story, and also in the school of Chief-Justice Daggett, in Yale College. He commenced the practice in Boston, but was soon lured away by his love of letters, to which he has with great fidelity devoted himself. He has edited several very successful periodicals:—first, the “New England Magazine,” and then, on his removal to New York in 1836, the “American Monthly;” afterwards, in connection with Horace Greeley, he conducted the “New-Yorker;” then, with Rufus W. Griswold, the “Brother Jonathan.” But the paper with which Mr. Benjamin was longest connected, and which was for years under his sole charge, was “The New World.” This hebdomadal has never been excelled as a repository of the best literature of the day, and for its fair and able criticisms. Weary of excessive literary toil, notwithstanding its satisfactory results, Mr. Benjamin disposed of his interest in THE NEw World, with the design of spending some years in Europe.
Our limits permit us to say no more than that since that time this writer has continued his literary pursuits with ardor and success. He has delivered lectures in many of our principal towns and cities, which have been universally liked and have won him “golden opinions.” He is still by profession a public speaker, resides in New York City, and is constantly invited to deliver poems and addresses before various literary associations. Of the following selections, the sonnet—A Life of Lettered Evae—has never before, we believe, appeared in print.
The departed the departed
The departed, the departed
The good, the brave, the beautiful,
I look around, and feel the awe
That solemn voice it mingles with
I sometimes dream their pleasant smiles
“HOW CHEERY ARE THE MARINERS "
How cheery are the mariners,
What care the mariners for gales?
When wide the berth along the lee,