And "little ones" to whom her hand could give But, counting earthly triumph as but dross, Bearing in the still path his blessed cross, And she hath lived and labor'd not in vain : The dearest treasure of her life for him. For friends supported not her parting soul, And whisper'd words of comfort, kind and sweet, Where the still bridegroom waited for her feet; AMELIA B. WELBY, 1821-1852. TO AMELIA WELBY. Darling of all hearts that listen To your warble wild and true! As a lovely star doth glisten In the far West,-so do you! Are you sure you are a mortal? With the songs you used to sing Where the rainbow dips its wing? Peri! no!-all woman-feeling Sweep again the silver chords! Pour the soul of music there! THIS sweet poetess, whose maiden name was Coppuck, was born in the small town of St. Michael's, Maryland, in 1821. At the age of fourteen, her father removed to Lexington, and afterwards to Louisville, Kentucky, where, in 1838, she was married to Mr. George B. Welby, a merchant of that city. She lied in 1852. Mrs. Welby early wrote for the "Louisville Journal," under the signature of "Amelia;" and in 1844, a collection of her poems was published, in a small volume, at Boston. In 1850, a beautiful edition was published by Appleton & Co., entitled Poems, by Amelia; a New, and Enlarged Edition; illustrated with Original Designs by Weir.' THE RAINBOW. I sometimes have thoughts, in my loneliest hours, When my heart was as light as a blossom in June; With a wing on the earth and a wing on the sea. How calm was the ocean! how gentle its swell! soul. "Mrs. Welby has nearly all the imagination of Maria del Occidente, (Maria Brooks,) with a more refined taste; and nearly all the passion of Mrs. Norton, with a nicer ear and (what is surprising) equal art. Very few American poets are at all comparable with her in the true poetic qualities. As for our poetersen, (an absurd but necessary word,) few of them approach her."-EDGAR A. POE. It left my full soul, like the wing of a dove, THE OLD MAID. Why sits she thus in solitude? her heart As if to let its heavy throbbings through; It is her thirtieth birthday! with a sigh Her soul hath turn'd from youth's luxuriant bowers, And her heart taken up the last sweet tie That measured out its links of golden hours! She feels her inmost soul within her stir With thoughts too wild and passionate to speak; Joy's opening buds, affection's glowing flowers, And yet she does not wish to wander back! On pleasures past, though never more to be: Hope links her to the future,-but the link That binds her to the past is memory! From her lone path she never turns aside, Though passionate worshippers before her fall, Like some pure planet in her lonely pride, She seems to soar and beam above them all! Not that her heart is cold!-emotions new And fresh as flowers are with her heart-strings knit : And sweetly mournful pleasures wander through Her virgin soul, and softly ruffle it. For she hath lived with heart and soul alive Sweet Thoughts, like honey-bees, have made their hive Yet life is not to her what it hath been: Her soul hath learn'd to look beyond its gloss,— And now she hovers like a star between Her deeds of love,-her Saviour on the cross! Beneath the cares of earth she does not bow, Yet, sometimes o'er her trembling heart-strings thrill With wild and passionate thoughts the craving void. That, yearning, throbs within her virgin breast, ON SEEING AN INFANT SLEEPING UPON ITS MOTHER'S BOSOM. It lay upon its mother's breast, a thing Bright as a dew-drop when it first descends, Or as the plumage of an angel's wing Where every tint of rainbow-beauty blends; Half closed upon them, like bright waters shone, There was a beam in that young mother's eye Stirr'd the bright tresses on her infant's cheek, It was a fragrant eve; the sky was full Of burning stars, that tremulously clear My heart grew softer as I gazed upon That youthful mother as she soothed to rest For 'tis a sight that angel ones above May stoop to gaze on from their bowers of bliss, Is cradled, in a sinful world like this. THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. THOMAS BUCHANAN READ was born in Chester County, Pennsylvania, in 1822. At the age of fourteen he removed to Cincinnati, where, from visiting the studio of Clevinger, he became ambitious to be a sculptor. He had made considerable proficiency in the art, when his master left for Europe. But the love of the beautiful was too strong in him to be repressed by such an occurrence, and he resolved to be a painter; and so successful was he in his first efforts that he concluded to go to the East, where he could have better advantages; and accordingly, in 1841 he removed to Boston, where he remained five years in the practice of his profession. Up to this time Mr. Read, though he had frequently written fugitive verses, had published but little; but now he began to contribute to the leading periodicals, and soon became a favorite with readers. Most of his best poems appeared first in "Graham's Magazine." In 1846, he removed to Philadelphia, and in 1850 sailed for Europe, and spent a year in Italy, pursuing his studies as an artist. On his return home, he visited England, where he was engaged to paint a number of portraits, and, while doing so, published a volume of poems, which attracted much notice, and was warmly commended by the London press. Of The Closing Scene, the "North British Review" said, "It is an addition to the permanent stock of poetry in the English language." In 1852, Mr. Read returned home, and passed the following winter in Cincinnati. The next year he went abroad the second time, accompanied by his family, and settled in Florence, enjoying the intercourse of a delightful society of artists and men of letters; and subsequently spent two years in Rome. In 1858, he returned to Philadelphia with some of the richest specimens of art,-the creations of his own genius,-all of which were engaged at prices that show that our countrymen know how to appreciate and reward true merit. Mr. Read's first collection of Poems was printed in Boston in 1847. In 1848 he published, in Philadelphia, Lays and Ballads, and in 1853 appeared The Pilgrims of the Great St. Bernard,—a prose romance. His more recent publications are Sylvia; or the Last Shepherd,-an Eclogue: and other Poems; The House by the Sea,-a Poem; and The New Pastoral. The last consists of a series of sketches of rustic and domestic life, mostly of primitive simplicity, and so truthful as to be not less valuable as history than attractive as poetry. 1 Beautiful editions of the last three poems have been published by Parry & McMillan. His Selection from the "Female Poets of America, with Biographical Notices," should be noticed, an elegant book published by E. H. Butler & Co., which has reached the seventh edition. |