But unto thee the soul of song is given, O Poet of to-day, a grander dower,- To thee Humanity, her woes revealing, Would all her griefs and ancient wrongs rehearse; Or Freedom pines, there let thy voice be heard; Oh, let thy lays prolong that angel-singing, And breathe God's peace, to earth "glad tidings" bringing EDITH MAY. THIS is the assumed name of one of our sweetest female poets,-a name bestowed upon her by the poet Willis when she first began to write for the press. Her poems were written chiefly at a very early age, and yet have all the strength and finish of the productions of a more experienced hand. She is a native of Philadelphia, and now resides in Montrose, Pennsylvania.1 "Her dramatic power,"-observes Dr. Griswold,-"observation of life; imagination, fancy, and the easy and natural flow of her verse, which is nowhere marred by any blemish of imperfect taste, entitle this very youthful poet to a place in the common estimation inferior to none occupied by writers of her years." We will add that, in our estimation, she is inferior to none of her own sex of any years. SUMMER. The early spring hath gone; I see her stand 1 As she was a very dear pupil of mine, I could, of course, give her name; but in a most kind and grateful letter received from her, in answer to one of inquiry, she says, "Personally, I have never come before the public; and will you pardon me if I withhold some of the biographical facts you ask for? About Edith May,' Mr. Willis's creation, you may say what you please; but there is little to be said. She has published a trifling work in prose, and a volume of poems, and is a born and bred Philadelphian. I wonder if certain pleasant Shakspearian readings in our school, that I well remember, had any thing to do with my fancy for versemaking?" A superb edition of her poems, elegantly illustrated, has been published by E. H. Butler & Co., Philadelphia. And at her feet a lion and a lamb Couch'd, side by side. Irresolute spring hath gone! And summer comes like Psyche, zephyr-borne To her sweet land of pleasures. She is here! Amid the distant vales she tarried long, But she hath come, oh joy!-for I have heard Sounding from plains and meadows, where, of late, Are platform'd for the zephyr's dancing feet. Most beautiful things; the spring's pale orphans lie Is musical with soft tones. She hath baptized Bathing their pale brows with her healing dews. THE COLORING OF HAPPINESS. My heart is full of prayer and praise to-day, But, oh! to-day Lie all harmonious and lovely things Close to my spirit, and a while it seems As if the blue sky were enough of Heaven! My thoughts are like tense chords that give their music Oh, in this sunbright sabbath of the heart, And the sun-quicken'd germ, or the poor moss A POET'S LOVE. The stag leaps free in the forest's heart, The plumy ferns on the mountain's side; In the wind that stirreth the shadowy pine, Never a sound through the even dim I have follow'd fast, from the lark's low nest, Thy breezy step to the mountain crest. The livelong day I have wander❜d on, Till the stars were up, and the twilight gone, And thy breath astir in my floating hair; In the deep still woods, and the sunny air; For thou lookest down from the bending skies, And the earth is glad with thy laughing eyes. When my heart is sad, and my pulse beats low, There comes a time when the morn shall rise, There comes a time when thou liest low There shall come a dirge through the valleys drear, And he maketh thy grave where the snow falls deep For the lightest sound of thy coming foot, For the softest note of thy summer lay, For the faintest chord of thy vine-strung lute! Woe is me, when the storms sweep by And the mocking winds are my sole reply! GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS. THIS brilliant and fascinating writer, and graceful and eloquent orator, is the son of George Curtis, of Providence, Rhode Island, and was born in that city in 1824. At six years of age, he was placed at a school near Boston, and after being there five years, he returned to Providence, where he pursued his studies till he was fifteen, when his father removed to New York. Here he entered a large mercantile house; but, after remaining in it a year, he returned to his studies for two years, when, at eighteen, he joined the celebrated Association at Brook Farm, West Roxbury, Massachusetts. Here he remained a year and a half, and then, after spending the winter in New York, being still enamored of the country, he went to Concord, Massachusetts, and lived in a farmer's family, working hard a portion of every day upon the farm, enjoying the society of Emerson, Hawthorne, and others of kindred literary tastes, and perfecting himself in various literary accomplishments. In 1846, Mr. Curtis sailed for Europe, and after visiting, with a scholar's eye, all the Southern countries, went to Berlin, to pursue Lis studies, and, in 1848, matriculated at the University. After this, he travelled through Italy again, visited Sicily, Malta, and the East, and returned home in the summer of 1850. In the autumn of that year, he published the Nile Notes of a Howadji, a great part of which was written on the Nile. In 1852, The Howadji in Syria appeared, and also Lotus-Eating, a Summer Book; and the same year he became connected with "Putnam's Magazine," and wrote that series of brilliant satiric sketches of society called The Potiphar Papers, which were afterwards collected and published in a volume. In the winter of 1853, Mr. Curtis entered the field as a lecturer, and was invited to lecture in different parts of the country. His success was all that his most ardent friends could desire; for, to a most graceful and finished style, a pure taste, and a fine fancy, he adds a gracefulness of delivery that gives to all his public efforts a charm that captivates his audience. In 1854, he delivered a poem before a literary society at Brown University, Providence, Rhode Island. In 1856, he took a very active part in the "Fremont campaign," speaking constantly, through the summer, with great effect. Those who had the good fortune to hear any of these addresses will not soon forget them, uniting as they did the soundest argument to a chaste and brilliant oratory. In August of that year, he delivered an oration before the literary societies of Wesleyan University, Middletown, Connecticut, on The Duty of the American Scholar to Politics and the Times. In the spring of 1856, Mr. Curtis did what it is never wise for a scholar to do, risked all his means in mercantile business. In November of the same year, he was married to the daughter of Francis G. Shaw, eldest son of the late Robert G. Shaw, of Boston. In the spring of 1857, the house with which he was connected became embarrassed, and he was obliged to take an active part in the management of its affairs. But it was too late: the ship was too leaky; and in August, just at the beginning of the crisis, she went down with all on board. He lost his all; but, like Milton, he "did not bate One jot of heart or hope," but is now nobly recovering himself with his pen and living voice. JERUSALEM OR ROME? To any young man, or to any man in whose mind the glow of poetic feeling has not yet died into "the light of common day," the first view of a famous city is one of the memorable epochs of life. Even if you go directly from common-place New York to common-sense London, you will awake in the night with a hushed feeling of awe at being in Shakspeare's city, and Milton's, and Cromwell's. More agreeable to your mood is the heavy moulding of the banqueting-room of Whitehall than the crystal splendors of the palace in the park. Because over the former the dusk of historical distance is already stealing, removing it into the romantic and ideal realm. But more profound, because farther removed from the criticism of contemporary experience, is the interest of the Italian cities. They represent characteristic epochs of human history. Rome, |