FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD, 1812-1850.

FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD was the daughter of Joseph Locke, a merchant of Boston, and was born in that city about the year 1812. Her early life was passed principally in Hingham, a beautiful village on the shores of Massachusetts Bay; and here she carly displayed that poetical genius which has given her a place among our best poets for delicate fancy, and ease and naturalness of versification. Her first printed productions appeared in Mrs. L. M. Child's "Juvenile Miscellany," when she was about seventeen years of age. Soon after this, she wrote for the "Ladies' Magazine," edited by Mrs. Sarah J. Hale, under the signature of "Florence." In 1835, she was married to Mr. Samuel S. Osgood, an artist of distinction and of cultivated literary taste, who fully appreciated the genius of his wife. Soon after their marriage, they went to London, where Mr. Osgood received great encouragement in the exercise of his art, while his wife published a small volume called The Casket of Fate, and also a collection of her poems, under the title of A Wreath of Wild Flowers from New England, both of which were much admired, and favorably noticed in some of the leading literary journals.

In 1840, Mr. and Mrs. Osgood returned to the United States, and, after being some time in Boston, took up their residence in New York. Here she wrote continually for the magazines, and edited "The Poetry of Flowers and the Flowers of Poetry," and The Floral Offering," two richly-illustrated souvenirs. But her health began gradually to decline, and in the winter of 1847-48, she was so much of an invalid as to be confined to the house. Her husband's health, also, was feeble, and he was advised to seek a change of climate. The next year, as his wife's health improved, Mr. Osgood sailed for California, with fine prospects there in the line of his profession. He returned early in 1850, with his fortunes as well as health improved, but just in time to be with his wife in the last few weeks of her life; for, five days after, she breathed her last, on the 12th of May. Her remains were removed to Boston, and laid beside those of her mother and daughter, at Mount Auburn, on Wednesday of the same week.2

NEW ENGLAND'S MOUNTAIN-CHILD.

Where foams the fall-a tameless storm-
Through Nature's wild and rich arcade,
Which forest-trees, entwining, form,
There trips the mountain-maid!

1 Mrs. Anna Maria Wells, her half-sister, on her mother's side, was no mean poetess; and Mr. A. A. Locke, her brother, was a fine writer, both in prose and verse, and a contributor for many years to some of the Boston journals.

2 Of the character of her poetry Edgar A. Poe thus writes:-"Mrs. Osgood has a rich fancy, even a rich imagination,-a scrupulous taste, a faultless style, and an ear finely attuned to the delicacies of melody. In that vague and anomalous something which we call grace for want of a more definite term, and which, perhaps, in its supreme development, may be found to comprehend nearly all that is genuine poetry.-in this magical quality-magical because at once so shadowy and so irresistible,-Mrs. Osgood has assuredly no superior in America, if indeed she has any equal under the sun."

She binds not her luxuriant hair
With dazzling gem or costly plume,
But gayly wreathes a rose-bud there,
To match her maiden-bloom.

She clasps no golden zone of pride
Her fair and simple robe around;
By flowing ribbon, lightly tied,
Its graceful folds are bound.

And thus attired,-
,—a sportive thing,

Pure, loving, guileless, bright, and wild,—
Proud Fashion! match me, in your ring,
New England's mountain-child!

She scorns to sell her rich, warm heart
For paltry gold, or haughty rank,—
But gives her love, untaught by art,
Confiding, free, and frank!

And, once bestow'd, no fortune-change
That high and generous faith can alter;
Through grief and pain-too pure to range-
She will not fly or falter.

Her foot will bound as light and free
In lowly hut, as palace-hall;

Her sunny smile as warm will be,—
For Love to her is all!

Hast seen where in our woodland-gloom
The rich magnolia proudly smiled ?—
So brightly doth she bud and bloom,
New England's mountain-child!

A MOTHER'S PRAYER IN ILLNESS.

Yes, take them first, my Father!

Let my doves

Fold their white wings in heaven, safe on thy breast,

Ere I am call'd away: I dare not leave

Their young hearts here, their innocent, thoughtless hearts!
Ah, how the shadowy train of future ills
Comes sweeping down life's vista as I gaze!

My May my careless, ardent-temper'd May,
My frank and frolic child, in whose blue eyes
Wild joy and passionate woe alternate rise;
Whose cheek the morning in her soul illumes;
Whose little, loving heart a word, a glance,
Can sway to grief or glee; who leaves her play,
And puts up her sweet mouth and dimpled arms
Each moment for a kiss, and softly asks,
With her clear, flutelike voice, "Do you love me?"
Ah, let me stay! ah, let me still be by,

To answer her and meet her warm caress!

For, I away, how oft in this rough world
That earnest question will be ask'd in vain!
How oft that eager, passionate, petted heart

Will shrink abash'd and chill'd, to learn at length
The hateful, withering lesson of distrust!

Ah! let her ne-tle still upon this breast,

In which each shade that dims her darling face

Is felt and answer'd, as the lake reflects

The clouds that cross yon smiling heaven! And thou, My modest Ellen,-tender, thoughtful, true;

Thy soul attuned to all sweet harmonies:

My pure, proud, noble Ellen! with thy gifts

Of genius, grace, and loveliness, half hidden

'Neath the soft veil of innate modesty,

How will the world's wild discord reach thy heart
To startle and appall! Thy generous scorn

Of all things base and mean,―thy quick, keen taste,
Dainty and delicate,-thy instinctive fear
Of those unworthy of a soul so pure,-
Thy rare, unchildlike dignity of mien,
All-they will all bring pain to thee, my child!
And oh, if even their grace and goodness meet
Cold looks and careless greetings, how will all
The latent evil yet undisciplined

In their young. timid souls, forgiveness find?
Forgiveness, and forbearance, and soft chidings,
Which I, their mother, learn'd of Love to give!
Ah, let me stay?-albeit my heart is weary,
Weary and worn, tired of its own sad beat,
That finds no echo in this busy world,
Which cannot pause to answer, -tired alike
Of joy and sorrow, of the day and night,

Ah, take them first, my Father, and then me!

And for their sakes, for their sweet sakes, my Father, Let me find rest beside them, at thy feet!

LABORARE EST ORARE.

Pause not to dream of the future before us:

Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us; Hark, how Creation's deep, musical chorus,

Unintermitting, goes up into heaven!

Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing;
Never the little seed stops in its growing;
More and more richly the Roseheart keeps glowing,
Till from its nourishing stem it is riven.

"Labor is worship!"-the robin is singing;
"Labor is worship!"-the wild bee is ringing:
Listen! that eloquent whisper, upspringing,

Speaks to thy soul from out nature's great heart. From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower; From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing flower; From the small insect, the rich coral bower;

Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part.

Labor is life!-'Tis the still water faileth;

Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth;

Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth!
Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon.
Labor is glory!-the flying cloud lightens;
Only the waving wing changes and brightens;
Idle hearts only the dark future frightens :

Play the sweet.keys, wouldst thou keep them in tune!
Labor is rest,-from the sorrows that greet us;
Rest from all petty vexations that meet us,
Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us,
Rest from world-sirens that lure us to ill.
Work, and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow;
Work,-thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow;
Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping-willow!
Work with a stout heart and resolute will!

Labor is health,-lo! the husbandman reaping,
How through his veins goes the life-current leaping!
How his strong arm in his stalwart pride sweeping,
True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides.
Labor is wealth,-in the sea the pearl groweth;
Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth ;
From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth;
Temple and statue the marble block hides.

Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are round thee!
Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee!
Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee!

Rest not content in thy darkness,

-a clod!

Work-for some good, be it ever so slowly;

Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly:

Labor-all labor is noble and holy:

Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God.

WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH.

WILLIAM HENRY BURLEIGH was born in Woodstock, Connecticut, on the 2d of February, 1812. In his infancy his parents removed to Plainfield, where his father was principal of an academy until from loss of sight he was compelled to resign his charge. He then retired to a farm, so that the son passed the principal years of his boyhood in agricultural labors, with no other means of education than those which a district school afforded, till he reached his seventeenth year, when he was apprenticed to the printing-business. Since that period, his life has been singularly varied, his time having been divided between the duties of a printer and editor, and a public lecturer. He conducted at one time "The Literary Journal," published at Schenectady. Afterwards, for more than two years, he edited "The Christian Witness," at Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, and re