Regard, my friend, a well-meant, kind request: Pass not my gate,-I welcome such a guest. ALCEUS: SEVENTH FRAGMENT.1 Nor porches, theatres, nor stately halls, Nor towers of wood or stone, nor workmen's arts, Sae lest 'mid fortune's sunshine We should feel ower proud an' hie, An' in our pride forget to wipe The tear frae poortith's' e'e, Some wee dark clouds o' sorrow come, We ken na whence or hoo, But ilka blade o' grass Keps its ain drap o' dew. James Ballantine. Ballantine was born in Edinburgh in 1808. When he was a mere boy the loss of his father compelled him to work for the family's support; and he became an accomplished painter on glass. An edition of his poems was published in 1856. They indicate a love of the beautiful in nature, and a devout faith that the order of things means good, and not evil, for the human race. He was the author of a work on stained glass, which was translated and published in Germany. ITS AIN DRAP O' DEW. Confide ye aye in Providence, For Providence is kind, An' bear ye a' life's changes Wi' a calm an' tranquil mind; Tho' pressed and hemmed on every side, Ha'e faith, an' ye'll win through, For ilka blade o' grass Keps its ain drap o' dew. Gin reft frae friends, or crossed in love, For ilka blade o' grass Keps its ain drap o' dew. In lang, lang days o' simmer, To Nature, parched and dry, The genial Night, wi' balmy breath, Gars verdure spring anew, An' ilka blade o' grass Keps its ain drap o' dew. 1 See the amplification of this fragment by Sir William Jones. Henry Fothergill Chorley. Chorley (1808-1872) was a native of England. He was a good musical critic, and a poet of no ordinary ability. His "Song of the Oak" was set to music by Henry Rus sell. He wrote several plays and numerous librettos. His "Memoirs" by Hewlett appeared in 1873. THE BRAVE OLD OAK. A song for the oak, the brave old oak, There's fear in his frown when the sun goes down, And he showeth his might on a wild midnight, In the days of old, when the spring with gold And on that day to the rebec gay They frolicked with lovesome swains; They are gone, they are dead, in the church-yard laid, But the tree it still remains. Then here's to the oak, etc. He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes When the squire's wide hall and the cottage small And a ruthless king is he; But he never shall send our ancient friend 1 Scottish for poverty. Lucretia and Margaret Davidson. AMERICANS. Lucretia Maria (1808–1825) and Margaret Miller Davidson (1823-1838), sisters, were the daughters of Dr. Oliver Davidson and Margaret Miller, his wife, both persons of culture and refinement. Lucretia was born at Plattsburg, on the shore of Lake Champlain. She was a precocious child and an assiduous student, and began to write verses before she was ten years old. In 1824 she was sent to Mrs. Willard's well-known school in Troy. Here she applied herself too closely to study. Her health soon failed, and she died of consumption one month before her seventeenth birthday. A volume, entitled "Amir Khan, and other Poems," being a collection of her pieces, with a memoir, was published in 1829 by Mr. S. F. B. Morse. It attracted much attention, and was very favorably noticed in the London Quarterly Review, xii., 289, by Southey, who wrote: "In our own language, except in the cases of Chatterton and Kirke White, we can call to mind no instance of so early, so ardent, and so fatal a pursuit of intellectual advancement." She showed as much talent for drawing as for literary work. Margaret, the sister, was about two years old at the time of Lucretia's death. She had the same imaginative traits, the same ardent, impulsive nature, and her life seems like a repetition of that of her elder sister. She improvised stories, wrote plays, and advanced so rapidly in her studies that it was necessary to check her diligence. She had the most lively reverence for her departed sister, and believed that she had close and intimate communion with her. At the age of six she took pleasure in reading Milton, Cowper, Thomson, and Scott. "She was at times," says Irving, "in a kind of ecstasy from the excitement of her imagination and the exuberance of her pleasurable sensations. In such moods every object of natural beauty inspired a degree of rapture always mingled with a feeling of gratitude to the Being 'who had made so many beautiful things for her.' *** A beautiful tree, or shrub, or flower would fill her with delight; she would note with surprising discrimination the various effects of the weather on the surrounding landscape. A bright starlight night would seem to awaken a mysterious rapture in her infant bosom." Margaret died even younger than Lucretia; being at her death but fifteen years and eight months old. The wife of Southey (Caroline Bowles) addressed the following beautiful sonnet (1842) "To the Mother of Lucretia and Margaret Davidson:" "O, lady! greatly favored! greatly tried! Lucretia's poems, with a memoir by Miss C. M. Sedgwick, were republished 1842; Margaret's poems were introduced to the public under the kind auspices of Washington Irving in 1841; and a revised edition of both, in one volume, appeared in 1850. There was a brother, Lieutenant L. P. Davidson of the United States Army, who also wrote verses, and died young. We regard Margaret as evincing the superior genius. Among her productions is a poem of some fourteen hundred lines, entitled "Lenore." It has a "Dedication" to the spirit of her sister, also an "Introduction," both of which we give entire. They are quite equal to the best work accomplished by Chatterton. A volume of selections from the writings of Mrs. Davidson, the mother of these gifted children, with a preface by Miss C. M. Sedgwick-all showing no ordinary degree of literary ability-appeared in 1844. TO MY SISTER. LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON. Lucretia had an elder sister, and was often moved by her music; particularly by Moore's "Farewell to my Harp." This she would ask to have sung to her at twilight, when it would excite a shivering through her whole frame. On one occasion she became cold and pale, and was near fainting, and afterward poured her excited feelings forth in the following address. This was in her fifteenth year. See Miss Sedgwick's Memoir. When evening spreads her shades around, To Fancy's sportive ear is given; When the broad orb of heaven is bright, And looks around with golden eye; When Nature, softened by her light, Seems calmly, solemnly to lie; Then, when our thoughts are raised above This world, and all this world can give,Oh, sister, sing the song I love, And tears of gratitude receive. The song which thrills my bosom's core, "Twere almost sacrilege to sing Those notes amid the glare of day; Notes borne by angels' purest wing, And wafted by their breath away. When sleeping in my grass-grown bed, Should'st thou still linger here above, Wilt thou not kneel beside my head, And, sister, sing the song I love? PROPHECY: TO A LADY. LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON. I have told a maiden of hours of grief; I have marked her a pathway of sorrow below; For the shadows of evening shall melt o'er thy soul, DEDICATION OF "LENORE." TO THE SPIRIT OF MY SISTER LUCRETIA. Yet more remarkable in some respects than any of the poems by Lucretia, is the following, we think, written by Margaret before her fifteenth year. O thou, so early lost, so long deplored! For thee I pour this unaffected lay, To thee these simple numbers all belong; For though thine earthly form bath passed away, Thy memory still inspires my childish song. Then take this feeble tribute! 'tis thine own! Thy fingers sweep my trembling heart-strings o'er; Arouse to harmony each buried tone, And bid its wakened music sleep no more! Long hath thy voice been silent, and thy lyre Hung o'er thy grave in death's unbroken rest. But when its last sweet tones were borne away, One answering echo lingered in my breast. O thou pure spirit! if thou hoverest near, Accept these lines, unworthy though they be, Faint echoes from thy fount of song divine, By thee inspired, and dedicate to thee. JOY. MARGARET M. DAVIDSON. Oh! my bosom is throbbing with joy, With a rapture too full to express: From within and without I am blessed; And the world, like myself, I would bless. All nature looks fair to my eye, From beneath and around and above: Hope smiles in the clear azure sky, And the broad earth is glowing with love. I stand on the threshold of life, There's a veil o'er the future, 'tis bright I turn to the world of affection, But oh! there's a fountain of joy More rich than a kingdom beside: It is holy;-death cannot destroy The flow of its heavenly tide. 'Tis the love that is gushing within; It would bathe the whole world in its light, Which the cold stream of time shall not quench, The dark frown of woe shall not blight. Though age, with an icy-cold finger, May stamp his pale seal on my brow, Still, still in my bosom shall linger The glow that is warming it now. Youth will vanish, and Pleasure, gay charmer, INTRODUCTION TO "LENORE: A POEM." The following, written by Margaret before she was fifteen years old, is among the most remarkable of her poems, in vigor and maturity of expression. Why should I sing? The scenes which roused And all her glowing dreams are o'er:- And fields of battle bathed in gore! Why should I seek the burning fount From whence their glowing fancies sprung? My feeble muse can only sing What other, nobler bards have sung! Thus did I breathe my sad complaint, “What though a thousand bards have sung The glowing streamlet flows no more? "Know, then, that long as earth shall roll, O'er yon pure heaven's expanded sphere; Long as the ocean's broad expanse Lies spread beneath yon broader sky; Long as the playful moonbeams dance, Like fairy forms, on billows high, "So long, unbound by mortal chain, Unchecked, unfettered, ou shall spring! O'er trembling nations cast her veil;— "Thou say'st that life's unvaried stream In peaceful ripples wears away; And years produce no fitting theme To rouse the Poet's slumbering lay:Not so! while yet the hand of God Each year adorns his teeming earth; While dew-drops deck the verdant sod, And birds and bees and flowers have birth; While every day unfolds anew Some charm to meet the searching eye; While buds of every varying hue Are bursting 'neath a summer sky! ""Tis true that War's unsparing hand Hath ceased to bathe our fields in gore, That Fate hath quenched his burning brand, And tyrant princes reign no more;— But dost thou think that scenes like these Form all the poetry of life? Would thy untutored muse delight In scenes of rapine, blood, and strife? No! there are boundless fields of thought, Where roving spirit never soared; Which wildest Fancy never sought, Nor boldest Intellect explored! "Then bow not silent o'er thy lyre, But tune its chords to Nature's praise: At every turn thine eye shall meet Fit themes to form a Poet's lays! Go forth, prepared her sweetest smiles In all her loveliest scenes to view; Nor deem, though others there have knelt, Thou may'st not weave thy garland too!" -It paused: I felt how true the words, FROM "LINES TO LUCRETIA." Of the poem, written by Margaret Davidson when she was not fourteen years old, from which we here give an extract, Washington Irving remarks: "We may have read poetry more artificially perfect in its structure, but never any more truly divine in its inspiration." My sister! with this mortal eye, Drink in the sweetness of thy strain: Yet fancy wild, and glowing love, . Reveal thee to my spirit's view, Enwreathed with graces from above, And decked in Heaven's own fadeless hue. I hear thee in the summer breeze, Thy fingers wake my youthful lyre, And teach its softer strains to flow; Thy spirit checks each vain desire, And gilds the lowering brow of woe. When all is still, and fancy's realm I know that here thy harp is mute, And quenched the bright poetic fire; Yet still I bend my ear to catch The hymnings of thy seraph lyre. Oh! if this partial converse now Caroline Norton. Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Sheridan (1808-1877), daughter of Thomas Sheridan, son of the celebrated Richard Brinsley Sheridan, author of "The Rivals," "The School for Scandal," etc., was a native of London. She was one of three sisters; one became Lady Seymour, and the oth er Mrs. Blackwood (afterward Lady Dufferin). They all manifested a taste for poetry. Caroline began to write early; she had inherited the literary gift both from the paternal and the maternal side. In her nineteenth year she married Mr. Norton, son of Lord Grantley. This union was dissolved in 1840, after Mrs. Norton had been the object of suspicion and persecution of the most painful description. "The Sorrows of Rosalie," "The Undying One," "The Dream, and other Poems," "The Child of the Islands," are among her productions in She also wrote novels, and entered into political discussions on reformatory questions. A year or two before her death she married Sir William Sterling Maxwell (1817-1879), author of "The Cloister Life of Charles V." (1852), and other works. A critic in the Quarterly Review says of Mrs. Norton: "She has much of that intense personal passion by which Byron's poetry distinguished from the larger grasp and deeper communion with nature of Wordsworth." verse. BINGEN ON THE RHINE. A soldier of the Legion, Lay dying at Algiers; There was lack of woman's nursing, There was dearth of woman's tears; But a comrade stood beside him, While his life-blood ebbed away, And bent with pitying glances To hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered As he took that comrade's hand, And he said, "I never more shall see My own, my native land; Take a message and a token To some distant friends of mine; For I was born at Bingen, Fair Bingen on the Rhine. "Tell my brothers and companions, When they meet and crowd around To hear my mournful story, In the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely; And when the day was done, Full many a corse lay ghastly pale Beneath the setting sun; And 'mid the dead and dying Were some grown old in wars, But some were young, and suddenly |