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Where the earth and sky like lovers meet, On the Grand Prairie.

Where the breeze will sigh, as it wanders by; Where the starlight comes from its home on high: Hopefully lay him to rest.

Solemnly, solemnly bow and adore:

An angel of light, on a pathway bright,

Conducted his soul to the viewless shore; His dust, from the gloom of the silent tomb, Shall arise again in immortal bloom:

Solemnly bow and adore."

From an address to a lady on the death of a darling daughter I extract the following stanzaspolished and perfect gems:

"She was a radiant star, mother,

That made thy pathway bright,

Till a cloud passed o'er thy summer sky,
And stole away its light.

It stole away the light from thee,

And hid it up on high,

Where the fairy flowers never fade,

And the lovely never die.

This world was far too cold, mother,

For such a heart as hers,

And she left it ere her eyes were dimmed

With sorrow's bitter tears.

And though, around thy quiet hearth,

She comes and sits by thee,

Her form is far too glorious now

For mortal eyes to see.

Upon thine aching heart, mother,

She lays her radiant brow;

But her angel touch is soft and light

Thou mayest not feel it now.

She sings to thee the dear old songs
Thy lips had taught her here,

But her voice is all too sweet and low
To reach a mortal ear."

Mrs. Bolton's power of description is very great. The following picture of the battle of Monterey is hardly inferior to Byron's masterly description of the battle of Waterloo:

"O, there were trembling hearts, and sighs,
And shrieks of deep despair;

All bloodless cheeks and tearful eyes,

And wild confusion there,

When first the cannon tolled death's knell

Upon the troubled air.

On, on they came, the free and brave;

I saw their ranks advance,

Their starry banners proudly wave,

Their war-steeds gayly prance,

And all along the solid lines

The unsheathed weapons glance.
There was a sound that seemed to rend
The strong old earth in twain,
And then the battle smoke did bend
Its wings above the plain,

As though it strove to hide from heaven
The gory, ghastly slain.

Among the wounded and the dead,
Along the crimson street,

I heard the soldier's measured tread,
The sound of flying feet,

And words of bitter parting said

By friends no more to meet."

The description of "A Gallop on the Grand Prairie" makes us feel, from its peculiar measure, as if we were really bounding away over the plain:

"Away, away, on our coursers fleet,

Where the grass is green, the air is sweet,

Now we are leaving the forest-trees,
Flying along like the fairy breeze,
Midst budding flowers and humming bees,
On the Grand Prairie.

On, on we speed; there is naught in sight,
But the bending sky so blue and bright,
And the glowing, sparkling sheen of light,
On the Grand Prairie.

The oppressor's tread may never stain
The glorious soil of this lovely plain,
For Liberty holds her court and reign
On the Grand Prairie."

The following stanzas afford another example of measure peculiarly appropriate to the sense. Indeed, the poetry of Mrs. Bolton generally is remarkable for well-constructed measure:

"Genius is a mighty fountain,

Gushing from a cloud-capt mountain; Talent is a pleasant rill,

Winding round a sunny hill.

Genius is forever pouring,

Rushing, foaming, seething, roaring;

Talent sings a pleasant lay,

As it glides along its way.
Genius from its wild endeavor,
Stoppeth, resteth, never, never;
Talent loiters oft to play

With the rainbow on its spray."

I can not withhold from the reader the following inimitable lines, which express so truly, so beautifully, and in so sweet numbers, the pleasures of the ideal:

Oft when the world is cold and dark, in seeming,

When friends I loved too well have changed or flown,

I wander far away in spirit, dreaming

Of light and beauty in a world my own.

In that transcendent realm, my soul's elysian,
I hide me from misfortune's simoon blast,
And realize hope's fondest, fairest vision,
And live and move amid the shadowy past.

I see again, in those bewitching trances,
The brightest, dearest scenes of other years;
And revel, in wild dreams and glowing fancies,
Till I forget life's cares, and toils, and tears.
There are the pictured forms of loved ones sleeping;
There are the eyes that once spoke love to mine;
And there is faithful Memory, fondly keeping
Her vigil o'er the treasures in her shrine.
The song of birds in dim old forest bowers,

The murmur of the stream where first I roved,
The music of the breeze, the breath of flowers,
Memory hath hoarded all that childhood loved.
The latest ray of loveliness, that lingers

Around my devious pathway, may depart;
But O, forbid that Time's effacing fingers
Should mar the sacred record on my heart!
When somber clouds along my life-sky darken,
When in the future not a star appears,
Still let me love the past-still let me hearken
To the sweet melodies of other years."

Mrs. Bolton is a philanthropist-a philanthropist of high and holy aspirations. In her poems are exhibited the yearnings of a spirit thrilling with sensibility to human suffering, and a soul overflowing with the love of humanity. In illustration of her devotion to the cause of active benevolence,

we would be glad to quote the whole of her poem, "Awake to Effort," but we must content ourselves with two stanzas:

"Awake to effort while the day is shining;

The time to labor will not always last,
And no regrets, repentance, nor repining
Can bring to us again the buried past.
The silent sands of life are falling fast;
Time tells our busy pulses, one by one;
And shall our work, so needful and so vast,

Be all completed, or but just begun,
When twilight shadows vail life's dim, departing sun?
The smallest bark, on life's tumultuous ocean,

Will leave a track behind forever more;
The lightest wave of influence, set in motion,
Extends and widens to the eternal shore.
We should be wary, then, who go before
A myriad yet to be, and we should take
Our bearing carefully, where breakers roar,

And fearful tempests gather; one mistake

May wreck unnumbered barks that follow in our wake." The inequalities in human condition, the wrongs in the present organization of society, and the contrast between the noble and the peasant, are thrillingly described in the following poem. Let the reader also notice the perfection and beauty of the

measure:

TWO SCENES.

SCENE IN A PALACE.

Over the moorland the wind shrieketh drearily-
Ice-jewels glitter on heather and thorn-
Pale is the sunlight that flashes out fitfully,
Over a dome where an infant is born.

Fold silken robes round the little one carefully;
Lay him to rest on his pillow of down;
Watch o'er the sleep of that scion of royalty,
Born to inherit a scepter and crown.

Shut out the light, that the room may be shadowy;
Fold silken curtains around the proud bed;
Ladies in waiting step softly and silently;
Let not a word in a whisper be said.

Joy in the palaces lighted so brilliantly,
Beauty and bravery are reveling there;

Wine in the jewel-wrought goblet foams daintily-
All things proclaim that the king has an heir.
Joy in the villages-church bells ring merrily-
Rockets are lighting the sky with their glare-
Bonfires are crackling, cannons are thundering,
Children are shouting, long life to the heir.
Downtrodden millions, go join in the revelry-
Go, in despite of the fetters you wear-
Vassals and beggars, and paupers right joyfully
Flutter your tatters, the throne has an heir.

SCENE IN A HOVEL.

Over the moorland the wild wind wails mournfully-
Ice-jewels glitter on heather and thorn-
Pale is the sunlight that trembles out fitfully,
Over a hut where an infant is born.
None heeds his wailing, although it sounds pitiful,
None shield his form from the wind, cold and wild;
Heir to privation, scorn, misery, and poverty,
Dark is thy pathway before thee, poor child.
Child, with the spirit to live through eternity,
Born to the yoke of the tyrant art thou;
Even the bread that is dealt to thee scantily,
Thrice must be earned by the sweat of thy brow.
Cold is the hovel, the hearth-stone is emberless-
Creaks the old door as it moves to and fro;
O'er the poor bed, where the mother lies shivering,
Busily flutters the white-fingered snow.

Pale is the cheek of the plebeian sufferer,
Passing from poverty's vale to the grave;
Better by far had she died in her infancy,
Ere to the millions she added a slave.
Yes, she is pale, and her voice sounds huskily,
Begging in vain for a morsel of bread:
Hush! it is over; her heart slumbers silently;

Grim famine stands by the pale mother dead." The space allo ved us in the Repository will hardly admit of more selections; but there is one other poem before me, of so high an order, so thrilling in description, and indicating in the writer so much humanity and so much poetic power, that I will venture to give it entire, at the risk of occupying more than my share of space in these pages. The sickness of heart, the wild despair, the reving insanity, and ineffable agony of the ruined one, are depicted in language and in measure which cause the soul of the reader to thrill with intense emotion:

"Above us the clouds are wild and black,
The winds are howling on our track;
The shivering trees are bare and bleak,
My heart is sick, and my limbs are weak,
Wandering wearily, wearily.

They turned me away from the rich man's door,
Haggard and hungry, and cold and poor.
There was feasting, laughter, and song within;
But they turned me away, in my tatters thin,
With thee, thou pledge of my shame and sin,
Away, where the wind sobs drearily.

My heart was cold, and the demons came,
With their livid lips, and their eyes of flame;
They told me to murder thee, child of shame,
And laughed till my brain whirled dizzily.
They followed my path through the drifted snow,
Taunting, and mocking, and gibbering low,
There is peace and rest where the cold waves flow,
Far down o'er the white sand busily.'

I felt their breath on my tortured brain;

They tore my heart, and shrieked in vain;
They whispered, Death is the end of pain;
Fly, fly to the grave's security-

The world will turn from the hideous stain
That mars thy womanly purity.'

They bade me remember the bright old time,
My cottage home in a foreign clime,
The friends I lost by my love and crime,
Till smothering my soul's humanity,

I grasped, in the strength of my deep despair,
Thy neck, my babe-it was soft and fair,
But the warm blood curdled and blackened there,
To witness my wild insanity.

How quiet, and rigid, and cold thou art!

I lay my head on thy fainting heart,
And kiss thy lips, with a quivering start!
My hand! God! let me not think of it!

I have seen thee smile, I have felt thy breath:
Can I feel it now? O death, pale death!
Thy Lethean cup, let me drink of it!

We'll make us a bed in the snow so deep;
The frosts with a shroud will cover us;
The winds will lull us to a dreamless sleep,
And the stars, in their far-off homes, will keep
Their beautiful night-watch over us.

But where is the father of that dead child,
That sleeps where the winds wail mournfully?
He left the woman his love beguiled-

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Is the monster loathed, contemned, reviled?
Does the world regard him scornfully?

He is reveling now, where the lamps are bright;
Where the hours go by in festive flight,
And the gleeful song rings merrily;
They wish him joy, on his bridal night,
And warm, young hearts beat cheerily.

The bride is a creature of love and youth;
With an eye of light, and a lip of truth,
And a fair form molded slenderly;
Her heart is a fountain of kindly ruth,

That flows for the suffering tenderly.

O, little she dreams that a wretch defamed,
Deceived, dishonored, betrayed, ashamed,

By the strength of the bridegroom's oath once claimed
The love she is fondly cherishing.

For he is a model of manly grace,

With the sounding name of a noble race;
He has power, and fame, and fair broad land,
And there is no blood on his jeweled hand
To tell of the lost one perishing.

Where the censers breathe, and the jewels shine,
They pledge him now in the rich red wine;
But never, by token, or word, or sign,

Allude to his victim's history.

No, fill the cup to the sparkling brim,
With life, and pleasure, and fame for him;
The future is bright, let the past be dim,
And wrapped in a fearful mystery.

In the penal code of this righteous world,
Justice, I ween, is a rarity;

At the kind, but frail, the lip is curled,
The bitter taunt, the sarcasm hurled,
With sure, unvarying parity;

But over the monster, mean and vile,
Whose heart is a canker, festering guile,
Who kills with the light of his serpent smile,
We throw the pure mantle of charity.
And many a heart that faints and fails,
And many a beautiful cheek that pales,
And eyes that weep at fictitious tales,

Of sorrow, and wrong, and misery, Will turn from the pallid brow that vails A deeper and wilder agony." We do not claim for the poems of Mrs. Bolton, more than for other human things, perfection. Tho measure is nearly faultless, and the rhyme generally good; but the rhetoric of some lines and some stanzas might be improved. We, however, have no great propensity for fault-finding, especially where there is so much excellence. We could hope that she would collect, correct, and publish in a volume her productions, now scattered through the columns of magazines and newspapers. It is true she may hereafter write more; for she is yet young, scarcely more than thirty years of age. But we I know not how she can write any thing better than are some of the verses which she has committed to leaves, as frail and evanescent as those on which the Cumean Sibyl wrote her prophecies. It is our deliberate conviction, that, of her scattered and fugitive productions, there might be collected a volume, which, for variety of subject, beauty of conception, purity of sentiment, and perfection of measure, would be fully equal to any volume of poems yet published by any American writer.

We do not often attempt to describe personal

appearances, nor social qualities; nor shall we now draw a portrait of the face or heart of Mrs. Bolton. We need only say, that she is not deficient in personal beauty, and that she excels in goodness of heart, in kindness, in generosity, in artless purity of character, in devoted and confiding friendship, and in all those domestic virtues and social affections which throw a sanctity about the person, and a charm about the society of woman.

A SHORT LETTER TO THE EDITOR.

BY MINNIE.

I AM not a married woman, Mr. Editor, nor yet am I an old maid; but I am one, who, when I find the right person and the proper time, shall offer my hand for matrimonial purposes. But, then, understand me, if I ever get married, I don't wish to be treated as some of my good female friends are. Not long since I was on a visit to one of my school companions, hardly married a year, and what I saw then and there made me a little spirited. Bear with me. Or coming in the house, the husband of the lady to whom I refer acted just as though he was to do nothing but to make confusion and work. He took down his boot-jack from a nail in the entry, and carried it into the parlor, and, having jerked off his boots, tumbled them and the jack into the middle of the room, and placed his feet up against the fire-jambs, and began his comfort. I looked and waited a long time, and thought may be he would put his boots in a corner, if he did nothing else. But he neither put them away nor the jack. His wife attended to both of them, and that without one word of complaint. Various other matters, of which this is a mere sample, were the subjects of my notice, and I felt pretty strongly kindled in my wrath against any such husband as that man for me.

Do you not think that a husband could help his wife a great deal by accommodating her in small matters? Ought he not to build the morning fire, put on the tea-kettle-forgive my commonplace talk, for I am in earnest-and attend now and then to some other domestic affairs? I think he ought; and I wish you would add your sanction to my views, and help in some reform in the conduct of many men who style and think themselves first-rate husbands. You will not think me ill-humored or splenetic in my remarks. I only ask for fairness between husband and wife. The latter, because she is made a drudge among Mohammedans, ought not to be made one by American citizens. “Live, and let live," says somebody; and "help, and love to help," should be the motto of every highminded young husband in this free country. But I must stop, short as my letter is, and wait some other opportunity for additional remarks on this topic.

THIS moral frame of ours is not without its share of mysterious demonstrations. Truth comes rapping and whispering at the door of the heart; and to the clamorous knockings of remorse, alas! few are strangers-they waken us from our stupid reveries, or recall us from our thoughtless wanderings, and bid the sharp tones of conscience pierce our ears. We would fain, it may be, sleep on in false security; but knock succeeds knock, and wretched, O! beyond expression, wretched they who yet bar the door, and irremediably sink into the slumber of moral death as the last faint sound of the messenger sounds upon the ear.

And I could tell of knockings yet more mysterious than even these-ay, more curious than all Rochester could manufacture; but I may not reveal these to all, or bruit them about to gratify that insatiable monster, the public.

Let me whisper them softly in your ear. There is such a thing as a maiden's heart. Curious little sanctum that! containing things strange, passing strange. Of itself, it is a little world; and yet this little world, how capa cious! What a living picture-gallery-what landscapes, and cottages, and castles, and palaces-what portraits hung up around its wall; and then what mighty hopes and fears-what imaginings, what longings, what anxious peerings into the future, what visions bright and radiant-what telescopic, what microscopic wonders! And how this little sensory at times palpitates, and beats, and throbs-how it dilates as if to fill all space, and again shrinks into nothingness! Think you it hears no knockings? Think you it never listens, and fancies that it hears when all is still? Let its history for one short year be penned, and what a history would be there? Mysterious, ay, passing strange! How the little thing has fluttered, like a frightened robin, and tried in vain to cease its flutterings, and hush itself into a quiet. Perhaps it would not that these knockings would actually cease, nor yet does it consciously wish their continuance. It sometimes endeavors to commune with itself; but, despite its every effort, some disturbing cause is ever present some form constantly intruding. These mysterious knockings may perchance become more and more importunate, and it is certain, though it may be very mysterious, that the fastenings of the door of this little heart-poor tumultuous thing-too weak to resist, in some unguarded moment, or by some strange volition, sometimes yields, and in walks a stranger-tenant, henceforth to act the master in this little tenement; or, after a little tarrying, to be thrust out, a no longer welcome guest!

I once knew such a little heart. It unfortunately heard the mysterious knockings. Curiosity-how strange for a woman-awoke from its dozings. A most persevering knocker was this visitant. He came for "yes," and "no" was no answer to him; early or late, rain or shine, it was knock, knock, at the door of this little heart. There was no use in turning a deaf ear, for deafness itself could not but hear such importunate rappings. Untiring perseverance deserves success. That little heart began to reproach itself for its discourtesy. Sure the door ought to be opened a little, a very little-to be left

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just ajar a little look into the tenement might be allowed, and no harm felt; so it was left ajar, but still the intruder knocked on, peering in the while, and the knocks were so gentle, so full of melody-so full of entreaty-they spoke so imploringly-how could the door shut again? Softly it turned on its hinges, and the knocker was in that little tenement—a snug little house for the knocking knocker. The door closed and the key was in his pocket, and his spirit danced to the tune of "Knock, knock away, knockers-in knocking's no sin; Nor is woman's heart steel, that knockings can't win."

OUR CHANGING SKY AND CLIMATE.

BY WASHINGTON IRVING.

LET me, reader, say a word in favor of those vicissitudes, which are too often made the subject of exclusive repining. If they annoy us occasionally by changes from hot to cold, from wet to dry, they give us one of the most beautiful climates in the world. They give us the brilliant sunshine of the south of Europe with the fresh verdure o the north. They float our summer sky with clouds of gorgeous tints or fleecy whiteness, and send down cooling showers to refresh the panting earth and keep it green. Our seasons are all poetical; the phenomena of our heavens are full of sublimity and beauty. Winter with us has none of its proverbial gloom. It may have its howling winds, and thrilling frosts, and whirling snow-storms; but it has also its long intervals of cloudless sunshine, when the snow-clad earth gives redoubled brightness to the day; when at night the stars beam with intensest luster, or the moon floods the whole landscape with her most limpid radiance; and then the joyous outbreak of our spring, bursting at once into leaf and blossom, redundant with vegetation, and vociferous with life!-and the splendors of our summerits morning voluptuousness and evening glory-its airy palaces of sun-gilt clouds piled up in a deep azure sky; and its gusts of tempest of almost tropical grandeur, when the forked lightning and the bellowing thunder volley from the battlements of heaven and shake the sultry atmosphere-and the sublime melancholy of our autumn, magnificent in its decay, withering down the pomp and pride of a woodland country, yet reflecting back from its yellow forests the golden serenity of the sky-surely we may say that in our climate "the heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament showeth forth his handiwork; day unto day uttereth speech; and night unto night showeth knowledge."

SINGULAR EXPERIMENTING AND DEATH.

BY REV. JACOB ABBOTT.

WHEN Cleopatra was warned by dreadful presentiments of what would probably at last be her fate, she amused herself in studying the nature of poisons-not theoretically, but practically-making experiments with them on wretched prisoners and captives, whom she compelled to take them, in order that she and Antony might see the effects which they produced. She made a collection of all the poisons which she could procure, and administered portions of them all, that she might see which were sudden and which were slow in their effects, and also learn which produced the greatest distress and suffering, and which, on the other hand, only benumbed and stupefied the faculties, and thus extinguished life with the least infliction of pain. These experiments were not confined to such vegetable and mineral poisons as could be mingled with the food or administered in a potion.