ELIZABETH F. ELLET.1

[Daughter of Dr. Lummis; married at an early age Dr. Ellet, then Professor of Chemistry in Columbia College, New York. Began writing for magazines in 1833; and since then has published Poems, Translated and Original, 1835; The Women of the American Revolution, 1848; and various other works].

SONNET.

O WEARY heart, there is a rest for thee!
O truant heart, there is a blessed home,
An isle of gladness on life's wayward sea,

Where storms that vex the waters never come.
There trees perennial yield their balmy shade;

There flower-wreathed hills in sunlit beauty sleep; There meek streams murmur through the verdant glade; There heaven bends smiling o'er the placid deep. Winnowed by wings immortal that fair isle;

Vocal its air with music from above;

There meets the exile eye a welcoming smile;
There ever speaks a summoning voice of love
Unto the heavy-laden and distressed,-
"Come unto me, and I will give you rest."

1 Up to this point, our authors have been arranged in sequence, according to actual or approximate date of birth. I am unable to give the like date as regards Mrs. Ellet and the ensuing writers. The ladies, with the exception of Alice Neal, are all included in Mr Griswold's Femele Poets of America, edition of 1854.

SARAH HELEN WHITMAN.

[Daughter of a merchant, Mr. Nicholas Power. Married at an early age Mr. J. Winslow Whitman, a barrister, who died not long afterwards. In some of her poems, Mrs. Whitman has had the coöperation of her sister, Miss Anna Marsh Power. She was known as an authoress in 1840, if not before].

SUMMER'S INVITATION TO THE ORPHAN.

THE summer skies are darkly blue,
The days are still and bright,
And Evening trails her robes of gold
Through the dim halls of night.

Then, when the little orphan wakes,
A low voice whispers, "Come,
And all day wander at thy will
Beneath my azure dome.

66 Beneath my vaulted azure dome,
Through all my flowery lands,
No higher than the lowly thatch
The royal palace stands.

"I'll fill thy little longing arms
With fruits and wilding flowers,
And tell thee tales of fairy land
In the long twilight hours."

The orphan hears that wooing voice:
A while he softly broods-

Then hastens down the sunny slopes
Into the twilight woods.

There all things whisper pleasure: the tree
Has fruits, the grass has flowers,

And the little birds are singing

In the dim and leafy bowers.

The brook stays him at the crossing
In its waters cool and sweet,

And the pebbles leap around him,
And frolic at his feet.

At night no cruel hostess

Receives him with a frown;

He sleeps where all the quiet stars
Are calmly looking down.

The Moon comes gliding through the trees,
And softly stoops to spread

Her dainty silver kirtle

Upon his grassy bed,

The drowsy night wind murmuring
Its quaint old tunes the while;
Till Morning wakes him with a song,
And greets him with a smile.

A SONG OF SPRING.

IN April's dim and showery nights,
When music melts along the air,
And Memory wakens at the kiss

Of wandering perfumes, faint and rare

Sweet springtime perfumes, such as won
Proserpina from realms of gloom,
To bathe her bright locks in the sun,
Or bind them with the pansy's bloom;

When light winds rift the fragrant bowers
Where orchards shed their floral wreath,
Strewing the turf with starry flowers,

And dropping pearls at every breath;

When all night long the boughs are stirred
With fitful warblings from the nest,

And the heart flutters like a bird

With its sweet, passionate unrest—

Oh! then, beloved, I think on thee,
And on that life, so strangely fair,
Ere yet one cloud of memory

Had gathered in hope's golden air.

I think on thee and thy lone grave
On the green hillside far away;
I see the wilding flowers that wave
Around thee as the night winds sway;

And still, though only clouds remain
On life's horizon, cold and drear,
The dream of youth returns again
With the sweet promise of the year.

I linger till night's waning stars

Have ceased to tremble through the gloom, Till through the orient's cloudy bars

I see the rose of morning bloom.

All flushed and radiant with delight,
It opens through earth's stormy skies,
Divinely beautiful and bright

As on the hills of paradise.

Lo! like a dewdrop on its breast

The morning star of youth and love,

Melting within the rosy east,

Exhales to azure depths above.

My spirit, soaring like a lark,
Would follow on its airy flight,
And, like yon little diamond spark,
Dissolve into the realms of light.

Sweet-missioned star! thy silver beams
Foretell a fairer life to come,

And through the golden gate of dreams
Allure the wandering spirit home.

T. H. CHIVERS.

volume named The another afterwards Domestic bereave

[This author, who is a physician, published a Lost Pleiad, and other Poems, in 1845; and under the unaccountable title Eonchs of Ruby. ments are a predominant topic of Dr. Chivers. He is a facile unselect writer, not unfrequently unbalanced, or even absurd: yet he shows a certain genuine gift of lithe and sonorous versification, and the quick susceptibilities of a man of heart and talent].

APOSTROPHE TO TIME.

ETERNITY'S lost child, who full of years
And unbefriended ever wanderest on,

From age to age, through this dark vale of tears,
Waiting for no man underneath the sun,
But journeying onward with thy scythe in hand-
Mowing down nations at one stroke, which are
Thy harvestings!-how long, on this dark land,
Wilt thou continue thus to lay life bare,
In utter nakedness?-how long before
My sorrowing soul shall triumph over thee?
Not till the hour when thou shalt be no more!
Not till the hour when thou shalt say to me,
"Come! thou art called for in eternity!"

CAROL.

OH for an angel's wing,

That, like the frightened dove,
My spirit might exultant spring,
And soar to heaven above!

Swift as an arrow's flight

Shot from an Indian's bow,
My spirit, like the beams of light,
Would soar from earth below.

As when an eagle springs,

Snatching from earth his prey-
My soul's emancipated wings
Would soar to endless day!