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, 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; Oh, could I but print a sweet kiss on his brow, Or smooth the gray locks to my fond heart so dear, But my own darling Home, it is dearer than all. TO HER MOTHER.' O mother would the power were mine As when, in days of health and glee, But, mother! now a shade hath pass'd The torch of earthly hope burns dim, The pleasures that I prized before! My soul, with trembling steps and slow, Oh, may it prove, as time rolls on, The pathway to eternal life! Then, when my cares and fears are o'er, This was the last poem she ever wrote. I said that Hope had pass'd from earth,- Of sinners saved and sins forgiven: GEORGE H. BOKER. The following is the dedication to "Songs of Summer:" TO GEORGE H. BOKER. Not mine the tragic poet's art, I see you in your wide domain, That lived and died of yore: The Moor Calaynos: Anne Boleyn: That float in hell's murk air! Anon your bitter Fool appears, A narrower range to me belongs, To win you to my small estate, 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, Or bent thy ruffled brow, to let the gale Strong link 'twixt vanish'd ages! Thou hast a sage and reverend look; As if life's struggle, through its varied stages, 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, 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, And a storm was on the deep. 'Tis a fearful thing in winter To be shatter'd in the blast, For the stoutest held his breath, And the breakers talk'd with Death. As thus we sat in darkness, Just the same as on the land?" * 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! Thou'dst still my tongue, and send my spirit far, For thou hast waged with Time unceasing war, I see thee springing, in the vernal time, Oh, thou wert happy then! On Summer's heat thy tinkling leaflets fed, Thy dry and tatter'd leaves fell dead; Thou drop'dst them one by one,- 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, Yet wert thou still the same! Summer spread forth thy towering form, 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, 'Neath those broad boughs the youth has told love's tale 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! Thou proud and steadfast tree, To bear unmurmuring what stern Time may send; Though wrath and storm shake me, 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: |