ANNE. THERE is a pensiveness in quiet ANNE, And, though of cheerfulness there is no lack, THE WAY OF LIFE. I SAW a gate: a harsh voice spake and said, "This is the gate of Life;" above was writ, "Leave hope behind, all ye who enter it ;" Then shrank my heart within itself for dread; But, softer than the summer rain is shed, Words dropp'd upon my soul and they did say, "Fear nothing, Faith shall save thee, watch and So, without fear I lifted up my head, And lo! that writing was not, one fair word Was carven in its stead, and it was "Love." Then rain'd once more those sweet tones from above With healing on their wings: I humbly heard, "I am the Life, ask and it shall be given! I am the Way, by me ye enter Heaven!" TO A FRIEND. [pray!" My friend, adown life's valley, hand in hand, THE POET. POET! who sittest in thy pleasant room, Striving to keep life's spring-flowers still in bloom, GREEN MOUNTAINS. YE mountains, that far off lift up your heads, I am not well content with this far view; THE DEAD. To the dark, narrow house when loved ones go, LOVE. MUCH had I mused of love, and in my soul CAROLINE. A STAIDNESS Sobers o'er her pretty face, Then laughs aloud, and scorns her hated bands. AMELIA B. WELBY. [Born about 1821.] AMELIA B. COPPUCK, now Mrs. WELBY, was born in the small town of St. Michaels, in Maryland. When she was about fourteen years of age, her father, who is a respectable mechanic, removed to Lexington, and afterward to Louisville, in Kentucky, where, in 1838, she was married to Mr. GEORGE B. WELBY. Most of her poetry has been published during the last four years, under the signature of "AMELIA," in the "Louisville Journal," edited by GEORGE D. PRENTICE. It has a musical flow and harmony, and the ideas are often poetical; but occasionally unmeaning epithets, lengthening out a line or a verse, remind us that the writer is not a scholarlike artist. She has feeling, and fancy, and pure sentiment-the highest qualities that ever distinguish the poetry of women. She is now but about twenty years of age. THE PRESENCE OF GOD. O, THOU who flingst so fair a robe Of clouds around the hills untrodThose mountain-pillars of the globe Whose peaks sustain thy throne, O GOD! All glittering round the sunset skies, Their fleecy wings are lightly furl'd, The glories of yon upper world; The summer-flowers, the fair, the sweet Hark! from yon casement, low and dim, Arrests the fisher on the seas; Have died like ripples on the shore. The birds among the summer blooms They leave the earth and soar above; We hear their sweet, familiar airs Diffusing sweetness all around! That trembles round the form it veils,They touch the heart as with a spell, Yet set the soaring fancy free: Of faith, of peace, of love, and Thee. May strive to cast thee from its thought; Magnetic-like, where'er we be, Where soaring fancy oft hath been, TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND. WHEN shines the star, by thee loved best, Where trembling stir the darkling leaves; When flings the wave its crest of foam Above the shadowy-mantled seas: A softness o'er my heart doth come, Linking thy memory with these; For if, amid those orbs that roll, Thou hast at times a thought of me, For every one that stirs thy soul A thousand stir my own of thee. Even now thy dear remember'd eyes, Fill'd up with floods of radiant light, Seem bending from the twilight skies, Outshining all the stars of night: And thy young face, divinely fair, Like a bright cloud, seems melting through, While low, sweet whispers fill the air, Making my own lips whisper too; For never does the soft south wind Steal o'er the hush'd and lonely sea, But it awakens in my mind A thousand memories of thee. O! could I, while these hours of dreams And, kneeling 'neath those burning orbs, Till seeing every sense absorbs; Lost one! companion of the blest, Thou, who in purer air dost dwell, Or fled thy soul its mystic cell, But dream'd of that to which we go, I'm thinking of some sunny hours, That shone out goldenly in June, Flow'd thy transparent veil away, From the fond glances bent on thee. There are some hours that pass so soon Our spell-touch'd hearts scarce know they end; And so it was with that sweet June, Ere thou wert lost, my gentle friend! And merry June shall come again! TO A SEA-SHELL. SHELL of the bright sea-waves! What is it that we hear in thy sad moan? Or, does some spirit dwell In the deep windings of thy chamber dim, Wert thou a murmurer long In crystal palaces beneath the seas, Another thing with thee Are there not gorgeous cities in the deep, And say, O lone sea-shell, Are there not costly things, and sweet perfumes, Scatter'd in waste o'er that sea-gulf of tombs ? Hush thy low moan, and tell. But yet, and more than all Has not each foaming wave in fury toss'd "Tis vain-thou answerest not! Thou hast no voice to whisper of the dead— 'Tis ours alone, with sighs, like odours shed, To hold them unforgot! Thine is as sad a strain As if the spirit in thy hidden cell And yet, there is no sound Upon the waters, whisper'd by the waves, The earth, O moaning shell! Are not these tones of earth, The rustling foliage with its shivering leaves, Sweeter than sounds that e'en in moonlight eves Upon the seas have birth? Alas! thou still wilt moanThou'rt like the heart that wastes itself in sighs, E'en when amid bewildering melodies, If parted from its own. MY SISTERS. LIKE flowers that softly bloom together, Sweet sisters! in our childish hours, To us was like the stem to flowers. That link'd us round our mother's knee, When we were children light and free, Will, like the perfume of each blossom, Live in our hearts where'er we roam, As when we slept on one fond bosom, And dwelt within one happy home. I know that changes have come o'er us: And all three have a different name; Have shadow'd o'er each youthful brow, Sweet scents upon its unseen wing- Up, like the waves of flashing seas, That with their music still are keeping Soft time with every fitful breeze; Each leaf that in the bright air quivers, The sounds from hidden solitudes, And the deep flow of far-off rivers, And the loud rush of many floods: All these, and more, stir in my bosom Feelings that make my spirit glad, Like dew-drops shaken in a blossom, And yet there is a something sad Mix'd with those thoughts, like clouds, that hover Above us in the quiet air, Veiling the moon's pale beauty over Like a dark spirit brooding there. But, sisters! those wild thoughts were never To gaze upon the stars forever, To hear the wind's wild melody. Ye'd rather look on smiling faces, And linger round a cheerful hearth, Shrink from day's golden flashing eye, The fond, the young, like stars that wane, Till every link of earth be parted, To form in heaven one mystic chain. "I KNOW THAT THY SPIRIT." I KNOW that thy spirit looks radiantly down From yon beautiful orb of the west, For a sound and a sign have been set in my own, For I gaze on the star that we talk'd of so oft, With a sense of delight and of love. The dreams that were laid on thy shadowless brow And the tone of thy voice was as pleasant and low So bright was the beautiful whole. But, now o'er thy breast in the hush of the tomb Are folded thy pale graceful arms, While the midnight of death, like a garment of gloom, Hangs over that bosom's young charms; And pale, pale, alas! is thy rosy lip now, Its melody broken and gone; And cold is the young heart whose sweet dreams below Were of summer, of summer alone, Yet the rise and the fall of thine eyelids of snow As I gaze on yon bright orb whose beautiful ray The blue-girdled stars and the soft dreamy air Yet I look in my heart, and a something is there The glow of the sunset, the voice of the breeze, Are dear to my bosom, for moments like these LUCRETIA AND MARGARET DAVIDSON. m I DID not notice LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON in that part of this volume in which, according to the chronological order which has governed me, her biography should have appeared, because it seemed most proper to consider together the remarkable children of whom she was the first born and the first to die. The verses which she wrote, like those of her younger sister, are extraordinary, considered as the productions of so young a person, however little they might deserve regard if presented as the effusions of a matured and well-educated mind. Those who have read the preceding memoirs may remember that an unusual precocity of genius has been frequently exhibited in this country. The cases of LUCRETIA and MARGARET DAVIDSON are doubtless more interesting than any to which I have already alluded, but they are not the most wonderful that have been known in America. About two years ago I was shown, by one of the house of HARPER and BROTHERS, the publishers, some verses by a girl but eight years of age, the daughter of a gentleman in Connecticut-that seemed superior to any composed by the DAVIDSONS; and I have heard of other prodigies no less remarkable. Greatness is not often developed in childhood, and where a strange precocity is observable, it is generally but a premature blossoming of the mind, We cannot always decide to even our own satisfaction, whether it is so, but as the writings of the subjects of this notice, when they were from nine to fifteen years of age, exhibited no progress, it is not unreasonable to suppose that, like the wonderful boy ZERAH COLBURN, of Vermont, whose arithmetical calculations many years ago astonished the world, they would have possessed in their physical maturity no high intellectual qualities. The father of LUCRETIA and MARGARET DAVIDSON was a physician. Their mother's maiden name was MARGARET MILLER. She was a woman of an ardent temperament and an affectionate disposition, and had been carefully educated. LUCRETIA was born in the village of Plattsburgh, in New York, on the twenty-seventh of September, 1808. In her infancy she was exceedingly fragile, but she grew stronger when about eighteen months old, and though less vigorous than most children of her age, suffered little for several years from sickness. She learned the alphabet in her third year, and at four was sent to a public school, where she was taught to read and to form letters in sand, after the Lancasterian system. As soon as she could read, her time was devoted to the little books that were given to her, and to composition. Her mother at one time wishing to write a letter, found that a quire or more of paper had disappeared from the place where writing implements were kept, and when she made inquiries in regard to it, the child came forward, and acknowledged that she had "used it." As Mrs. DAVIDSON knew she had not been taught to write, she was surprised, and inquired in what manner it had been destroyed. LUCRETIA burst into tears, and replied that she did not like to tell." The question was not urged. From that time the paper continued to disappear, and she was frequently observed with little blank books, and pens, and ink, sedulously shunning observation. At length, when she was about six years old, her mother found hidden in a closet, rarely opened, a parcel of papers which proved to be her manuscript books. On one side of each leaf was an artfully sketched picture, and on the other, in rudely formed letters, were poetical explanations. From this time she acquired knowledge very rapidly, studying intensely at school, and reading in every leisure moment at home. When about twelve years of age she accompanied her father to a celebration of the birth-night of Washington. She had studied the history of the father of his country, and the scene awakened her enthusiasm. The next day an older sister found her absorbed in writing. She had drawn an urn, and written two stanzas beneath it. They were shown to her mother, who expressed her delight with such animation that the child immediately added the concluding verses, and returned with the poem as it is printed in her "Remains" And does a Hero's dust lie here? Among the heroes of the age, The toils of war and danger past, The brightest on the list of fame, And every sex, and every age, She continued to write with much industry from this period. In the summer of 1823, her health being very feeble, she was withdrawn from school, and sent on a visit to some friends in Canada. In Montreal she was delighted with the public buildings, martial parades, pictures, and other novel sights, and she returned to Plattsburgh with renovated health. Her sister MARGARET was born on the twenty-sixth of March, 1823, and a few |