When the rude Cossack with an outstretch'd hand II. 1852. Stand, thou great bulwark of man's liberty! Hold your proud peril! Freemen undefiled, III. At length the tempest from the North has burst, Harmonious peace, so long and fondly nursed 1853. Has broken bounds,-the wolf makes towards the fold. Into degrading slavery! The worst Dealt on a shield that oft has felt the weight For God has squander'd all his precious store Of right and mercy, if the time's so sore That slaves can bring you to their own base state. IV. 1854. Far from the Baltic to the Euxine's strand, The blood that fell between us, in the fight, SARA JANE LIPPINCOTT. THIS gifted writer, who has won such an enviable reputation around the hearthstones of this country, under the name of "Grace Greenwood," was born in Pompey, Onondaga County, New York. Her maiden name was Sara Jane Clarke, which was changed by her marriage with Mr. Leander K. Lippincott, of Philadelphia, in October, 1853; but the appellation by which she will be best known in American literature will be that under which she made her first appearance as an author,-"Grace Greenwood." While she was a school-girl, her parents removed to Rochester, where she enjoyed the excellent educational advantages of that place. In 1843, she removed with her parents to New Brighton, Pennsylvania, where she resided until ber marriage. Soon after her removal thither, she appeared as an authoress, under the signature of "Grace Greenwood," in the columns of the "New York Mirror,” then under the editorial care of George P. Morris and N. P. Willis. Among her poetical pieces which attracted most admiration were Ariadne, The Horseback Ride, and Pygmalion. These were succeeded by various prose compositions, some of which appeared in "The National Era," published in Washington. In connection with her other literary labors, she was the editor of "The Lady's Book" for a year. Her first volume, entitled Greenwood Leares, was published in 1850. In 1851, she published a volume of Poems, and an admirable juvenile story-book, called History of my Pets. A second series of Greenwood Leaves was issued the following year; and also another juvenile work, called Recollections of my Childhood. In the spring of 1852, she visited Europe, and spent fifteen months in England and on the Continent. Soon after her return, she published a record of her travels, entitled Haps and Mishaps of a Tour in Europe. In October, 1853, she entered upon the editorship of "The Little Pilgrim," a monthly magazine for children, published in Philadelphia by Mr. Leander K. Lippincott, to whom about this time she was married. In the fall of 1855, she published Merrie England, the first of a series of books of foreign travel for children. In the spring of 1856, a volume, entitled A Forcst Tragedy, and other Tales, appeared; and in the fall of 1857, Stories and Legends of History and Travel, being the second of the series mentioned above. It will thus be seen that Mrs. Lippincott's life is any thing but an idle one; and we rejoice that she is thus keeping her talent bright by use, charming all her readers, both old and young, by her fine thoughts, expressed in a style of great ease, simplicity, and beauty. THE HORSEBACK RIDE. When troubled in spirit, when weary of life, When I faint 'neath its burdens, and shrink from its strife, And its fairest scene seems but a desolate waste, 1 See some account of this in a note on page 427. Then come ye not near me, my sad heart to cheer, But bring me, oh, bring me my gallant young steed, The bonds are all broken that fetter'd my mind, Now we're off-like the winds to the plains whence they came; And the rapture of motion is thrilling my frame! On, on speeds my courser, scarce printing the sod, Now 'long a clear rivulet lieth his track,— See his glancing hoofs tossing the white pebbles back! What a wild thought of triumph, that this girlish hand Till the long, flinty pathway is flashing with fire! Oh, not all the pleasures that poets may praise, Not the wildering waltz in the ball-room's blaze, Nor the chivalrous joust, nor the daring race, Nor the swift regatta, nor merry chase, Nor the sail, high heaving waters o'er, Nor the rural dance on the moonlight shore, Of a fearless leap on a fiery steed! THE ARMY OF REFORM. Yes, ye are few,-and they were few And they were few at Lexington, That lightning-flash, that thunder-peal, And they were few, who dauntless stood Upon old Bunker's height, And waged with Britain's strength and pride The fierce, unequal fight. 'Tis said that Persia's baffled king, To curb its swelling tide: But freedom's own true spirit heaves It toss'd those fetters to the skies, The scorn of each succeeding age And o'er that foolish deed has peal'd Thus, thus, defeat, and scorn, and shame, Is his, who strives to bind The restless, leaping waves of thought, THE POET OF TO-DAY. What siren joy from thy high trust hath won thee, Why lingerest thou amid the summer places, And fitful playing of soft, golden gleams? Arouse! look up, to where above thee tower Ah, when the soul of ancient song was blending It brought strange, charméd words, and magic singing, The trumpet's "golden cry," the shield's quick flashing, But, ah! in all that song's heroic story, Had sad Humanity one briefest part? Sounds through the clang of words, the storm, the glory, One sharp, strong cry from out her bleeding heart? |