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But unto thee the soul of song is given,
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."
“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.
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 7. 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 anything to do with my fancy for versemaking 2"
A. o edition of her poems, elegantly illustrated, has been published by E. H. Butler & Co., Philadelphia.
And at her feet a lion and a lamb
She is here !
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 At a chance breath; a thousand delicate hands Are harping on my soul! no sight, no sound, But stirs me to the keenest sense of pleasure, — Be it no more than the wind's cautious tread, The swaying of a shadow, or a bough, Or a dove's flight across the silent sky.
Oh, in this sunbright sabbath of the heart,
A POET's LovE.
The stag leaps free in the forest's heart,
I have follow’d fast, from the lark's low nest,
When my heart is sad, and my pulse beats low,
There comes a time when the morn shall rise,
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS.
Yhis 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 li; 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
but is now nobly recovering himself with his pen and living voice.
JERUSALEM or RomE 7
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. Roue,