THE CLOSING SCENE. Within this sober realm of leafless trees, The russet year inhaled the dreamy air, All sights were mellow'd, and all sounds subdued, The embattled forests, erewhile arm'd in gold, On slumberous wings the vulture tried his flight; The village church-vane seem'd to pale and faint. The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crew,- His alien horn, and then was heard no more. Where erst the jay within the elm's tall crest Made garrulous trouble round the unfledged young; Where sang the noisy masons of the eves, Where every bird which charm'd the vernal feast To warn the reapers of the rosy east, All now was songless, empty, and forlorn. Alone from out the stubble piped the quail, And croak'd the crow through all the dreary gloom; Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale, Made echo to the distant cottage-loom. There was no bud, no bloom, upon the bowers; The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night; The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, Sail'd slowly by-pass'd noiseless out of sight. Amid all this,-in this most cheerless air, And where the woodbine sheds upon the porch Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there, Firing the floor with his inverted torch,— Amid all this, the centre of the scene, The white-hair'd matron, with monotonous tread, Plied her swift wheel, and with her joyless mien Sat like a Fate, and watch'd the flying thread. She had known Sorrow. He had walk'd with her, While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom, Re-gave the swords,-but not the hand that drew, Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune. At last the thread was snapp'd, her head was bow'd: Life droop'd the distaff through his hands serene; And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud, While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene. THE DESERTED ROAD. Ancient road, that wind'st deserted Standing by thee, I look backward, Here I stroll along the village As in youth's departed morn; Miss the crowd of jovial teamsters To the mossy way-side tavern While the old, decrepit tollman, Ancient highway, thou art vanquish'd; Thou art vanquish'd and neglected; Though neglected, gray, and grassy, THE EMIGRANTS. At length the long leave-taking is all o'er; Of him who hath enticed her hence,-her heart Bring them at last to unfamiliar scenes. Thoughtful they hold their onward, plodding course, Each in his own reflection wrapt; for now, With every step, some ancient tie is broke, Some dream relinquish'd, or some friend given up: Even as tears, unbidden. Thus, a while, Which from the still fields soars into the air, ARTHUR'S SONG. Bid adieu to the homestead, adieu to the vale, Though the memory recalls them, give grief to the gale: For as well might the stream that comes down from the mount Yet the lordly Ohio feels joy in his breast As he follows the sun, onward, into the West. Oh, to roam, like the rivers, through empires of woods, Leave the tears to the maiden, the fears to the child, New Pastoral. MARGARET MILLER DAVIDSON, 1823-1838. MARGARET MILLER DAVIDSON, the sister of Lucretia,' and quite as remarkable for precocity of intellect, was born at Plattsburg, New York, on the 26th of March, 1823. Like her sister, she was of delicate and feeble frame from her infancy, and, like her, she had an early passion for knowledge. Her mother rather restrained than incited her; but, before she could even read well, she would talk in the language of poetry,-of "the pale, cold moon," of the stars "that shone like the eyes of angels," &c. At six years old, she was so far advanced in literature and intelligence as to be the companion of her mother when confined to her room by protracted illness. She read not only well, but elegantly: her love of reading amounted to a passion, and her intelligence surpassed belief. Strangers viewed with astonishment a child, not seven years old, reading with enthusiastic delight Thomson's "Seasons," the "Pleasures of Hope," Cowper's "Task," and even Milton, and marking with taste and discrimination the passages that struck her. But the Bible was her daily study, over which she See p. 600. did not hurry as a task, but would spend an hour or two in commenting with her mother on the contents of the chapter she had read. In 1833, when she was ten years old, she had a severe attack of scarlet fever, from which she recovered but slowly; and her father, thinking that the climate and situation of Saratoga would benefit her, removed thither in that year. But she showed her love for the wilder scenes of her "Native Lake" in the following sweet verses-remarkable for one so young-on the charms of LAKE CHAMPLAIN. Thy verdant banks, thy lucid stream, The little isles that deck thy breast, How often, in my childish glee, I've sported round them bright and free! My own, my beautiful Champlain ! How oft I've watch'd the freshening shower And shall I never see thee more, Shall I not see thee once again, My own, my beautiful Champlain ? In 1834, she was again seized by illness,- -a liver-complaint, which by sympathy affected her lungs, and confined her to her room for four months. On her recovery, her genius, which had seemed to lie dormant in sickness, broke forth with a brilliancy that astonished her friends; and she poured out, in rapid succession, some of her best pieces. But her health was evidently declining. The death of a beloved brother, in 1835, affected her deeply; and, with short and transient gleams of health amid dark and dismal prospects, this amiable and gifted child slept, as she herself trusted, in the arms of her Redeemer, on the 25th of November, 1838, aged fifteen years and eight months.1 Read an article in the "London Quarterly Review," by the poet Southey, vol. lxix. p. 91. In commenting upon Washington Irving's charming Memoir of this wonderful child, the "Democratic Review" for July, 1841, thus remarks: "This is a record, by one of the finest writers of the age, of one of the most remarkable prodigies that the poetical literature of any country has produced." |