In 1833, while on a visit to New York, she expressed, in the following beautiful lines, her

YEARNINGS FOR HOME.

I would fly from the city, would fly from its care,
To my own native plants and my flowerets so fair!
To the cool grassy shade, and the rivulet bright
Which reflects the pale moon on its bosom of light.
Again would I view the old mansion so dear
Where I sported, a babe, without sorrow or fear.
I would leave this great city, so brilliant and gay,
For a peep at my home on this pure summer-day.

I have friends whom I love, and would leave with regret,

But the love of my home, oh, 'tis tenderer yet!

There a sister reposes, unconscious, in death,

'Twas there she first drew, and there yielded, her breath;
A father I love is away from me now,—

Oh, could I but print a sweet kiss on his brow,

Or smooth the gray locks to my fond heart so dear,
How quickly would vanish each trace of a tear!
Attentive I listen to pleasure's gay call;

But my own darling Home, it is dearer than all.

TO HER MOTHER.'

O mother would the power were mine
To wake the strain thou lovest to hear,
And breathe each trembling new-born thought
Within thy fondly listening ear,

As when, in days of health and glee,
My hopes and fancies wander'd free.

But, mother! now a shade hath pass'd
Athwart my brightest visions here;
A cloud of darkest gloom hath wrapp'd
The remnant of my brief career:
No song, no echo can I win;
The sparkling fount hath dried within.

The torch of earthly hope burns dim,
And fancy spreads her wings no more;
And oh, how vain and trivial seem

The pleasures that I prized before!

My soul, with trembling steps and slow,
Is struggling on through doubt and strife;

Oh, may it prove, as time rolls on,

The pathway to eternal life!

Then, when my cares and fears are o'er,
I'll sing thee as in "days of yore."

This was the last poem she ever wrote.

I said that Hope had pass'd from earth,-
'Twas but to fold her wings in heaven,
To whisper of the soul's new birth,

Of sinners saved and sins forgiven:
When mine are wash'd in tears away,
Then shall my spirit swell the lay.
When God shall guide my soul above
By the soft chords of heavenly love,-
When the vain cares of earth depart,
And tuneful voices swell my heart,
Then shall each word, each note I raise,
Burst forth in pealing hymns of praise;
And all not offer'd at his shrine,
Dear mother, I will place on thine.

GEORGE H. BOKER.

The following is the dedication to "Songs of Summer:"

TO GEORGE H. BOKER.

Not mine the tragic poet's art,
His empire of the human heart:
That world is shut from me,
But you possess the key.

I see you in your wide domain,
Surrounded by a stately train,

That lived and died of yore:
But now they die no more!

The Moor Calaynos: Anne Boleyn:
The Guzman and the cruel queen;
And that unhappy pair

That float in hell's murk air!

Anon your bitter Fool appears,
Masking in mirth his cynic sneers;
We hear his bells, and smile,
But long to weep the while.

A narrower range to me belongs,
A little land of summer songs,
A realm of thought apart
From all that wrings the heart.

To win you to my small estate,
Old friend, I greet you at the gate,
And from its fairest bower
Bring you this simple flower.

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

GEORGE HENRY BOKER was born in the city of Philadelphia in 1824, and was graduated at Princeton College in 1841. After travelling some time in Europe for literary improvement, he returned home "to devote a life of opulent leisure to the cultivation of letters and to the enjoyment of the liberal arts and of society." In 1847 appeared his first publication, under the title of The Lesson of Life, and other Poems; and the next year, Calaynos, a Tragedy, which was well received. The scene is laid in Spain, and the plot is designed to illustrate the hostile feeling between the Spanish and Moorish races. His next production was Anne Boleyn, a Tragedy, which shows more maturity of thought than Calaynos, and a finer vein of poetical feeling. These were followed by The Betrothal, Francesca da Rimini, and other plays. In 1856 appeared a collection of his dramatic and miscellaneous poems, in two beautiful volumes, from the press of Ticknor & Fields.'

"The glow of his images is chastened by a noble simplicity, keeping them within the line of human sympathy and natural expression. He has followed the masters of dramatic writing with rare judgment. He also excels many gifted

ODE TO A MOUNTAIN OAK.

Proud mountain giant, whose majestic face,
From thy high watch-tower on the steadfast rock,
Looks calmly o'er the trees that throng thy base,
How long hast thou withstood the tempest's shock
How long hast thou look'd down on yonder vale
Sleeping in sun before thee;

Or bent thy ruffled brow, to let the gale
Steer its white, drifting sails just o'er thee?

Strong link 'twixt vanish'd ages!

Thou hast a sage and reverend look;

As if life's struggle, through its varied stages,
Were stamp'd on thee, as in a book.

Thou hast no voice to tell what thou hast seen,

Save a low moaning in thy troubled leaves;

And canst but point thy scars, and shake thy head,
With solemn warning, in the sunbeam's sheen;
And show how Time the mightiest thing bereaves,
By the sere leaves that rot upon thy bed.

poets of his class in a quality essential to an acted play,-spirit. His language also rises often to the highest point of energy, pathos, and beauty."-H. T. TUCKERMAN.

Mr. Boker's Ballad of Sir John Franklin is a beautiful production,-a happy imitation of the ancient ballad,-but too long for insertion here. It reminds me, however, of the graceful "Ballad of the Tempest," by

JAMES T. FIELDS.

Mr. Fields was born at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, in 1820, and is a partner of the well-known publishing-house of Ticknor & Fields, Boston,-a house that never published an inferior book, nor any book in an inferior manner. Mr. Fields has won considerable reputation as a poet, by the volume of his poetical productions published in 1849, and by two volumes privately printed for friends in 1854 and 1858.

BALLAD OF THE TEMPEST.

We were crowded in the cabin,
Not a soul would dare to sleep,-
It was midnight on the waters,

And a storm was on the deep. 'Tis a fearful thing in winter

To be shatter'd in the blast,
And to hear the rattling trumpet
Thunder, "Cut away the mast!"
So we shudder'd there in silence,-

For the stoutest held his breath,
While the hungry sea was roaring,

And the breakers talk'd with Death.

As thus we sat in darkness,
Each one busy in his prayers,—
"We are lost!" the captain shouted,
As he stagger'd down the stairs.
But his little daughter whisper'd,
As she took his icy hand,
"Isn't God upon the ocean,

Just the same as on the land?"
Then we kiss'd the little maiden,
And we spoke in better cheer,
And we anchor'd safe in harbor
When the morn was shining clear.

* Their recent "Household Edition of the Waverley Novels"-the best published in this country-is highly creditable to their judgment and taste.

Type of long-suffering power!
Even in my gayest hour

Thou'dst still my tongue, and send my spirit far,
To wander in a labyrinth of thought;

For thou hast waged with Time unceasing war,
And out of pain hast strength and beauty brought.
Thou amidst storms and tempests hadst thy birth,
Upon these bleak and scantly-sheltering rocks,
Nor much save storm and wrath hast known on earth;
Yet nobly hast thou bode the fiercest shocks
That Circumstance can pour on patient Worth.

I see thee springing, in the vernal time,
A sapling weak, from out the barren stone,
To dance with May upon the mountain-peak;
Pale leaves put forth to greet the genial clime,
And roots shot down life's sustenance to seek,
While mere existence was a joy alone,-

Oh, thou wert happy then!

On Summer's heat thy tinkling leaflets fed,
Each fibre toughen'd, and a little crown
Of green upon thy modest brow was spread,
To catch the rain, and shake it gently down
But then came Autumn, when

Thy dry and tatter'd leaves fell dead;
And sadly on the gale

Thou drop'dst them one by one,-
Drop'dst them, with a low, sad wail,

On the cold, unfeeling stone.

Next Winter seized thee in his iron grasp,

And shook thy bruised and straining form;

Or lock'd thee in his icicles' cold clasp,

And piled upon thy head the shorn cloud's snowy fleece

Wert thou not joyful, in this bitter storm,

That the green honors, which erst deck'd thy head,

Sage Autumn's slow decay, had mildly shed?

Else, with their weight, they'd given thy ills increase, And dragg'd thee helpless from thy uptorn bed.

Year after year, in kind or adverse fate,

Thy branches stretch'd, and thy young twigs put forth,
Nor changed thy nature with the season's date:
Whether thou wrestled'st with the gusty north,
Or beat the driving rain to glittering froth,
Or shook the snow-storm from thy arms of might,
Or drank the balmy dews on summer's night;-
Laughing in sunshine, writhing in the storm,

Yet wert thou still the same!

Summer spread forth thy towering form,
And Winter strengthen'd thy great frame.
Achieving thy destiny

On went'st thou sturdily,

Shaking thy green flags in triumph and jubilee!

From thy secure and sheltering branch

The wild bird pours her glad and fearless lay,

That, with the sunbeams, falls upon the vale,
Adding fresh brightness to the smile of day.

'Neath those broad boughs the youth has told love's tale
And thou hast seen his hardy features blanch,
Heard his snared heart beat like a prison'd bird,
Fluttering with fear, before the fowler laid;
While his bold figure shook at every word,—
The strong man trembling at a timid maid!
And thou hast smiled upon their children's play;
Seen them grow old, and gray, and pass away.
Heard the low prattle of the thoughtless child,
Age's cold wisdom, and the lessons mild
Which patient mothers to their offspring say';-
Yet art thou still the same!

Rot noteless with their once inspired clay:

Still, as at their birth,

Thou stretchest thy long arms above the earth,

Type of unbending Will!

Type of majestic, self-sustaining Power!

Elate in sunshine, firm when tempests lower,

May thy calm strength my wavering spirit fill!
Oh, let me learn from thee,

Thou proud and steadfast tree,

To bear unmurmuring what stern Time may send;
Nor 'neath life's ruthless tempests bend:
But calmly stand like thee,

Though wrath and storm shake me,
Though vernal hopes in yellow Autumn end,
And, strong in Truth, work out my destiny.
Type of long-suffering Power!

Type of unbending Will!

Strong in the tempest's hour,

Bright when the storm is still;

Rising from every contest with an unbroken heart,

Strengthen'd by every struggle, emblem of might thou art! Sign of what man can compass, spite of an adverse state, Still, from thy rocky summit, teach us to war with Fate!

TO ENGLAND.

I.

Lear and Cordelia! 'twas an ancient tale

Before thy Shakspeare gave it deathless fame:
The times have changed, the moral is the same
So like an outcast, dowerless, and pale,
Thy daughter went; and in a foreign gale
Spread her young banner, till its sway became
A wonder to the nations. Days of shame
Are close upon thee: prophets raise their wail.