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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?


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
That women love to hear,
Those gentle flatteries that fall
So sweet on every ear.
He tells me that my face is fair,
Too fair for grief to shade:
My cheek, he says, was never meant
In sorrow's gloom to fade.

He stands beside me, when I sing
The songs of other days,
And whispers, in love's thrilling tones,
The words of heartfelt praise;
And often in my eyes he looks,
Some answering love to see,_ -
In vain he there can only read
The faith of memory.

He little knows what thoughts awake
With every gentle word;
How, by his looks and tones, the founts
Of tenderness are stirr'd.
The visions of my youth return,
Joys far too bright to last;
And while he speaks of future bliss,
I think but of the past.

Like lamps in Eastern sepulchres,
Amid my heart's deep gloom,
Affection sheds its holiest light
Upon my husband's tomb.
And, as those lamps, if brought once more
To upper air, grow dim,
So my soul's love is cold and dead,
Unless it glow for him.


Oh tell me not of lofty fate,
Of glory's deathless name:

The bosom love leaves desolate
Has naught to do with fame.

Wainly philosophy would soar,
Love's height it may not reach ;

The heart soon learns a sweeter lore
Than ever sage could teach.

The cup may bear a poison'd draught,
The altar may be cold;

But yet the chalice may be quaff'd,—
The shrine sought as of old.

Man's sterner nature turns away
To seek ambition's goal |

Wealth's glittering gifts, and pleasure's ray,
May charm his weary soul;

But woman knows one only dream,_
That broken, all is o'er;

For on life's dark and sluggish stream
Hope's sunbeam rests no more.


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 woe,
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 maiden 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.”

Oh, 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.


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
They visit us in dreams,
And they glide above our memories
Like shadows over streams;
But where the cheerful lights of home
In constant lustre burn,

The departed, the departed
Can never more return

The good, the brave, the beautiful,
How dreamless is their sleep,
Where rolls the dirge-like music
Of the ever-tossing deep
Or where the hurrying night-winds
Pale winter's robes have spread
Above their narrow palaces,
In the cities of the dead!

I look around, and feel the awe
Of one who walks alone
Among the wrecks of former days,
In mournful ruin strown;
I start to hear the stirring sounds
Among the cypress-trees,
For the voice of the departed
Is borne upon the breeze.

That solemn voice it mingles with
Each free and careless strain :
I scarce can think earth's minstrelsy
Will cheer my heart again.
The melody of summer waves,
The thrilling notes of birds,
Can never be so dear to me
As their remember'd words.

I sometimes dream their pleasant smiles
Still on me sweetly fall,
Their tones of love I faintly hear
My name in sadness call.
I know that they are happy,
With their angel-plumage on,
But my heart is very desolate
To think that they are gone.


How cheery are the mariners,
Those lovers of the sea!
Their hearts are like its yesty waves,
As bounding and as free.
They whistle when the storm-bird wheels
In circles round the mast;
And sing when deep in foam the ship
Ploughs onward to the blast.

What care the mariners for gales?
There's music in their roar,

When wide the berth along the lee,
And leagues of room before.

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