LYDIA HUNTLEY, now Mrs. SIGOURNEY, was born at Norwich, in Connecticut, about the year 1797. From early childhood she was remarkable for her love of knowledge, and the facility with which she acquired it. She could read with fluency when but three years old, and at eight she wrote verses which gave promise of the eminence she has since attained. Some of her early contributions to the public journals attracted the attention of Mr. DANIEL WADSWORTH, a wealthy and intelligent gentleman of Hartford, who induced her to collect and publish them in a volume, which appeared in 1815, under the modest title of "Moral Pieces, by LYDIA HUNTLEY." About the same period she commenced a select school for young women, which she conducted for several years with much ability.

In 1819 she was married to Mr. CHARLES SIGOURNEY, a leading merchant and banker, of Hartford. Their two children have been carefully educated by herself, and she has had the charge of a large household from the time of her marriage; but she has never for a single year omitted the literary pursuits to which she was so early devoted. Her visits to the tomb of the mother of Washington, to Niagara, and other places, have been fitly commemorated in her poems, while the splendid scenery and the history of New England have been celebrated in "Connecticut Forty Years Ago," a prose legend, and in stanzas inspired by the "Connecticut River," the "Charter Oak," and

many kindred themes. Probably her "Letters to Young Ladies" should be ranked first in usefulness and ability among her prose works, though several others, intended, like that, to improve the minds and the hearts of her sex, have been much read, and generally praised.

Mrs. SIGOURNEY has been a frequent contributor to the best periodicals of this country, and has occasionally written for the English annuaries. Six or seven volumes of her poetry have been published, of which the last appeared near the close of 1841. In the summer of 1840, she went to Europe, and remained there a year, visiting the principal cities of Great Britain and France, and Avon, Dryburgh Abbey, Grassmere, and Rydal Mount, and other Meccas of the literary pilgrim. While in London a collection of her writings was published in that city.

Mrs. SIGOURNEY has surpassed any of the poets of her sex in this country in the extent of her productions; and their religious and domestic character has made them popular with the large classes who regard more than artistic merit the spirit and tendency of what they read. Her subjects are varied, and her diction generally melodious and free; but her works are written too carelessly; they lack vigour and condensation; and possess but few of the elements of enduring verse. Very little poetry, save that of scholars, finished with extreme care and skill, belongs to the permanent literature of any language.

THE WESTERN EMIGRANT.

Ax axe rang sharply mid those forest shades Which from creation toward the sky had tower'd In unshorn beauty. There, with vigorous arm, Wrought a bold emigrant, and by his side His little son, with question and response, Beguiled the toil. Boy, thou hast never seen Such glorious trees. Hark, when their giant trunks Fall, how the firm earth groans. Rememberest thou The mighty river, on whose breast we sail'd, So many days, on toward the setting sun? Our own Connecticut, compared to that, Was but a creeping stream." "Father, the brook That by our door went singing, where I launch'd My tiny boat, with my young playmates round When school was o'er, is dearer far to me Than all these bold, broad waters. To my eye They are as strangers. And those little trees My mother nurtured in the garden bound Of our first home, from whence the fragrant peach Hung in its ripening gold, were fairer, sure, Than this dark forest, shutting out the day."

"What, ho!-my little girl," and with light step A fairy creature hasted toward her sire, And, setting down the basket that contain'd His noon-repast, look'd upward to his face With sweet, confiding smile. "See, dearest, see, That bright-wing'd paroquet, and hear the song Of yon gay red-bird, echoing through the trees, Making rich music. Didst thou ever hear, In far New England, such a mellow tone?" 18 I had a robin that did take the crumbs Each night and morning, and his chirping voice Did make me joyful, as I went to tend My snow-drops. I was always laughing then In that first home. I should be happier now Methinks, if I could find among these dells The same fresh violets." Slow night drew on, And round the rude hut of the emigrant The wrathful spirit of the rising storm Spake bitter things. His weary children slept, And he, with head declined, sat listening long To the swoln waters of the Illinois, Dashing against their shores. Starting, he spake"Wife! did I see thee brush away a tear?

'Twas even so. Thy heart was with the halls
Of thy nativity. Their sparkling lights,
Carpets, and sofas, and admiring guests,
Befit thee better than these rugged walls
Of shapeless logs, and this lone, hermit home."
"No-no. All was so still around, methought
Upon mine ear that echoed hymn did steal,
Which mid the church, where erst we paid our vows,
So tuneful peal'd. But tenderly thy voice
Dissolved the illusion." And the gentle smile
Lighting her brow, the fond caress that soothed
Her waking infant, reassured his soul
That, wheresoe'er our best affections dwell,
And strike a healthful root, is happiness.
Content and placid, to his rest he sank;

But dreams, those wild magicians, that do play
Such pranks when reason slumbers, tireless wrought
Their will with him. Up rose the thronging mart
Of his own native city-roof and spire,
All glittering bright, in fancy's frost-work ray.
The steed his boyhood nurtured proudly neighed,
The favourite dog came frisking round his feet,
With shrill and joyous bark-familiår doors
Flew open-greeting hands with his were link'd
In friendship's grasp-he heard the keen debate
From congregated haunts, where mind with mind
Doth blend and brighten-and till morning roved
Mid the loved scenery of his native land.

NIAGARA.

FLOW on, forever, in thy glorious robe
Of terror and of beauty. Yea, flow on
Unfathom'd and resistless. God hath set
His rainbow on thy forehead: and the cloud
Mantled around thy feet. And he doth give
Thy voice of thunder, power to speak of Him
Eternally-bidding the lip of man

Keep silence-and upon thy rocky altar pour
Incense of awe-struck praise. Ah! who can dare
To lift the insect trump of earthly hope,
Or love, or sorrow-mid the peal sublime
Of thy tremendous hymn? Even ocean shrinks
Back from thy brotherhood: and all his waves
Retire abash'd. For he doth sometimes seem
To sleep like a a spent labourer-and recall
His wearied billows from their vexing play,
And lull them to a cradle-calm: but thou,
With everlasting, undecaying tide,

Dost rest not, night or day.-The morning stars,
When first they sang o'er young creation's birth,
Heard thy deep anthem; and those wrecking fires,
That wait the archangel's signal to dissolve
This solid earth, shall find JEHOVAH's name
Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears,
Of thine unending volume. Every leaf,
That lifts itself within thy wide domain,
Doth gather greenness from thy living spray,
Yet tremble at the baptism. Lo!-yon birds
Do boldly venture near, and bathe their wing
Amid thy mist and foam. 'Tis meet for them
To touch thy garment's hem, and lightly stir
The snowy leaflets of thy vapour-wreath,

For they may sport unharm'd amid the cloud,
Or listen at the echoing gate of heaven,
Without reproof. But as for us, it seems
Scarce lawful, with our broken tones, to speak
Familiarly of thee. Methinks, to tint
Thy glorious features with our pencil's point,
Or woo thee to the tablet of a song,
Were profanation. Thou dost make the soul
A wondering witness of thy majesty,
But as it presses with delirious joy
To pierce thy vestibule, dost chain its step,
And tame its rapture, with the humbling view
Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand
In the dread presence of the Invisible,
As if to answer to its Gon through thee.

WINTER.

I DEEM thee not unlovely, though thou comest
With a stern visage. To the tuneful bird,
The blushing floweret, the rejoicing stream,
Thy discipline is harsh. But unto man
Methinks thou hast a kindlier ministry.
Thy lengthen'd eve is full of fireside joys,
And deathless linking of warm heart to heart,
So that the hoarse storm passes by unheard.
Earth, robed in white, a peaceful Sabbath holds,
And keepeth silence at her Maker's feet.
She ceaseth from the harrowing of the plough,
And from the harvest-shouting. Man should rest
Thus from his fever'd passions, and exhale
The unbreathed carbon of his festering thought,
And drink in holy health. As the toss'd bark
Doth seek the shelter of some quiet bay
To trim its shatter'd cordage, and restore
Its riven sails-so should the toil-worn mind
Refit for time's rough voyage. Man, perchance,
Soured by the world's sharp commerce, or impair'd
By the wild wanderings of his summer way,
Turns like a truant scholar to his home,
And yields his nature to sweet influences
That purify and save. The ruddy boy
Comes with his shouting school-mates from their
sport,

On the smooth, frozen lake, as the first star
Hangs, pure and cold, its twinkling cresset forth,
And, throwing off his skates with boisterous glee,
Hastes to his mother's side. Her tender hand
Doth shake the snow-flakes from his glossy curls,
And draw him nearer, and with gentle voice
Asks of his lessons, while her lifted heart
Solicits silently the Sire of Heaven
To bless the lad." The timid infant learns
Better to love its sire-and longer sits
Upon his knee, and with a velvet lip
Prints on his brow such language, as the tongue
Hath never spoken. Come thou to life's feast
With dove-eyed meekness, and bland charity,
And thou shalt find even Winter's rugged blasts
The minstrel teacher of thy well-tuned soul,
And when the last drop of its cup is drain'd-
Arising with a song of praise-go up
To the eternal banquet.

NAPOLEON'S EPITAPH.

"The moon of St. Helena shone out, and there we saw the face of NAPOLEON'S sepulchre, characterless, uninscribed."

Shall countless [ghosts

And who shall write thine epitaph! thou man
Of mystery and might. Shall orphan hands
Inscribe it with their father's broken swords?
Or the warm trickling of the widow's tear
Channel it slowly mid the rugged rock,
As the keen torture of the water-drop
Doth wear the sentenced brain?
Arise from Hades, and in lurid flame
With shadowy finger trace thine effigy,
Who sent them to their audit unanneal'd,
And with but that brief space for shrift of prayer,
Given at the cannon's mouth! Thou, who didst sit
Like eagle on the apex of the globe,
And hear the murmur of its conquer'd tribes,
As chirp the weak-voiced nations of the grass,
Why art thou sepulchred in yon far isle,
Yon little speck, which scarce the mariner
Descries mid ocean's foam! Thou, who didst hew
A pathway for thy host above the cloud,
Guiding their footsteps o'er the frost-work crown
Of the throned Alps--why dost thou sleep unmark'd,
Even by such slight memento as the hind
Carves on his own coarse tomb-stone? Bid the
throng

Who pour'd thee incense, as Olympian Jove,
And breathed thy thunders on the battle-field,
Return, and rear thy monument. Those forms
O'er the wide valleys of red slaughter spread,
From pole to tropic, and from zone to zone,
Heed not thy clarion call. But should they rise,
As in the vision that the prophet saw,
And each dry bone its sever'd fellow find,
Piling their pillar'd dust as erst they gave
Their souls for thee, the wondering stars might deem
A second time the puny pride of man
Did creep by stealth upon its Babel stairs,
To dwell with them. But here unwept thou art,
Like a dead lion in his thicket-lair,
With neither living man, nor spirit condemn'd,
To write thine epitaph. Invoke the climes,
Who served as playthings in thy desperate game
Of mad ambition, or their treasures strew'd
Till meagre famine on their vitals prey'd,
To pay the reckoning. France! who gave so free
Thy life-stream to his cup of wine, and saw
That purple vintage shed o'er half the earth,
Write the first line, if thou hast blood to spare.
Thou, too, whose pride did deck dead CESAR's tomb,
And chant high requiem o'er the tyrant band
Who had their birth with thee, lend us thine arts
Of sculpture and of classic eloquence,
To grace his obsequies, at whose dark frown
Thine ancient spirit quail'd, and to the list
Of mutilated kings, who glean'd their meat
'Neath AGAG's table, add the name of Rome.
-Turn, Austria! iron-brow'd and stern of heart,
And on his monument, to whom thou gavest
In anger, battle, and in craft a bride,
Grave Austerlitz, and fiercely turn away.

-As the rein'd war-horse snuffs the trumpet-blast,
Rouse Prussia from her trance with Jena's name,
And bid her witness to that fame which soars
O'er him of Macedon, and shames the vaunt
Of Scandinavia's madman. From the shades
Of letter'd ease, O, Germany! come forth
With pen of fire, and from thy troubled scroll
Such as thou spread'st at Leipsic, gather tints
Of deeper character than bold romance
Hath ever imaged in her wildest dream,
Or history trusted to her sibyl-leaves.
-Hail, lotus crown'd! in thy green childhood fed
By stiff-neck'd PHARAOH, and the shepherd-kings,
Hast thou no tale of him who drench'd thy sands
At Jaffa and Aboukir! when the flight
Of rushing souls went up so strange and strong
To the accusing Spirit? Glorious Isle!
Whose thrice enwreathed chain, Promethean-like,
Did bind him to the fatal rock, we ask
Thy deep memento for this marble tomb.
-Ho! fur-clad Russia! with thy spear of frost,
Or with thy winter-mocking Cossack's lance,
Stir the cold memories of thy vengeful brain,
And give the last line of our epitaph.
-But there was silence; for no sceptred hand
Received the challenge. From the misty deep
Rise, island-spirits! like those sisters three,
Who spin and cut the trembling thread of life,
Rise on your coral pedestals, and write
That eulogy which haughtier climes deny.
Come, for ye lull'd him in your matron arms,
And cheer'd his exile with the name of king,
And spread that curtain'd couch which none disturb,
Come, twine some trait of household tenderness,
Some tender leaflet, nursed with Nature's tears
Around this urn. But Corsica, who rock'd
His cradle, at Ajacio, turn'd away,
And tiny Elba, in the Tuscan wave
Threw her slight annal with the haste of fear,
And rude Helena, sick at heart, and gray
'Neath the Pacific's smiling, bade the moon,
With silent finger, point the traveller's gaze
To an unhonour'd tomb. Then Earth arose,
That blind, old empress, on her crumbling throne,
And to the echoed question « Who shall write
Napoleon's epitaph ?" as one who broods
O'er unforgiven injuries, answer'd, “None.”

THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON.*

Love hast thou slept unnoted. Nature stole
In her soft ministry around thy bed,
Spreading her vernal tissue, violet-gemm'd,
And pearl'd with dews. She bade bright Summer
bring

Gifts of frankincense, with sweet song of birds,
And Autumn cast his reaper's coronet
Down at thy feet, and stormy Winter speak
Sternly of man's neglect. But now we come
To do thee homage-mother of our chief!
Fit homage-such as honoureth him who pays.
Methinks we see thee-as in olden time-

* On laying the corner-stone of her monument at Fredericksburg, Virginia.

Simple in garb-majestic and serene,
Unmoved by pomp or circumstance-in truth
Inflexible, and with a Spartan zeal
Repressing vice and making folly grave.
Thou didst not deem it woman's part to waste
Life in inglorious sloth-to sport awhile
Amid the flowers, or on the summer wave,
Then fleet, like the ephemeron, away,
Building no temple in her children's hearts,
Sive to the vanity and pride of life [clothed
Which she had worshipp'd. For the might that
The Pater Patriæ," for the glorious deeds

66

That make Mount Vernon's tomb a Mecca shrine
For all the earth, what thanks to thee are due,
Who, mid his elements of being, wrought,
We know not-Heaven can tell. Rise, sculptured
And show a race unborn who rest below, [pile!
And say to mothers what a holy charge

Is theirs with what a kingly power their love
Might rule the fountains of the new-born mind.
Warn them to wake at early dawn-and sow
Good seed before the world hath sown her tares;
Nor in their toil decline-that angel bands
May put the sickle in, and reap for God,
And gather to his garner. Ye, who stand,
With thrilling breast, to view her trophied praise,
Who nobly rear'd Virginia's godlike chief-
Ye, whose last thought upon your nightly couch,
Whose first at waking, is your cradled son,
What though no high ambition prompts to rear
A second WASHINGTON; or leave your name
Wrought out in marble with a nation's tears
Of deathless gratitude-yet may you raise
A monument above the stars-a soul
Led by your teachings and your prayers to God.

FELICIA HEMANS.

NATURE doth mourn for thee. There is no need
For man to strike his plaintive lyre and fail,
As fail he must, if he attempt thy praise.
The little plant that never sang before,
Save one sad requiem, when its blossoms fell,
Sighs deeply through its drooping leaves for thee,
As for a florist fallen. The ivy, wreath'd
Round the gay turrets of a buried race,
And the tall palm that like a prince doth rear
Its diadem 'neath Asia's burning sky,
With their dim legends blend thy hallow'd name.
Thy music, like baptismal dew, did make
Whate'er it touch'd most holy. The pure shell,
Laying its pearly lip on ocean's floor,

The cloister'd chambers, where the sea-gods sleep,
And the unfathom'd melancholy main,
Lament for thee, through all the sounding deeps.
Hark! from the snow-breasted Himmaleh to where
Snowdon doth weave his coronet of cloud,
From the scathed pine tree, near the red man's hut,
To where the everlasting banian builds
Its vast columnac temple, comes a moan
For thee, whose ritual made each rocky height
An altar, and each cottage-home, the haunt
Of Poesy. Yea, thou didst find the link

That joins mute nature to ethereal mind,
And make that link a melody. The couch
Of thy last sleep, was in the native clime
Of song and eloquence and ardent soul,
Spot fitly chosen for thee. Perchance, that isle
So loved of favouring skies, yet bann'd by fate,
Might shadow forth thine own unspoken lot.
For at thy heart the ever-pointed thorn
Did gird itself, until the life-stream oozed
In gushes of such deep and thrilling song,
That angels poising on some silver cloud
Might linger mid the errands of the skies,
And listen, all unblamed. How tenderly
Doth Nature draw her curtain round thy rest!
And, like a nurse, with finger on her lip,
Watch, lest some step disturb thee, striving still
From other touch, thy sacred harp to guard.
Waits she thy waking, as the mother waits
For some pale babe, whose spirit sleep hath stolen,
And laid it dreaming on the lap of Heaven?
We say not thou art dead. We dare not. No.
For every mountain stream and shadowy dell
Where thy rich harpings linger, would hurl back
The falsehood on our souls. Thou spak'st alike
The simple language of the freckled flower,
And of the glorious stars. God taught it thee.
And from thy living intercourse with man
Thou shalt not pass away, until this earth
Drops her last gem into the doom's-day flame.
Thou hast but taken thy seat with that bless'd choir,
Whose hymns thy tuneful spirit learn'd so well
From this sublunar terrace, and so long
Interpreted. Therefore, we will not say
Farewell to thee; for every unborn age
Shall nix thee with its household charities,
The sage shall greet thee with his benison,
And woman shrine thee as a vestal flame
In all the temples of her sanctity,

And the young child shall take thee by the hand
And travel with a surer step to Heaven.

THE ALPINE FLOWERS.

MEEK dwellers mid yon terror-stricken cliffs! With brows so pure, and incense-breathing lips, Whence are ye?-Did some white-winged mes

senger

On mercy's missions trust your timid germ
To the cold cradle of eternal snows?
Or, breathing on the callous icicles,
Bid them with tear-drops nurse ye?—
-Tree nor shrub
Dare that drear atmosphere; no polar pine
Uprears a veteran front; yet there ye stand,
Leaning your cheeks against the thick-ribb'd ice,
And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him
Who bids you bloom unblanch'd amid the waste
Of desolation. Man, who, panting, toils
O'er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the verge
Of yawning gulfs, o'er which the headlong plunge
Is to eternity, looks shuddering up,

And marks ye in your placid loveliness-
Fearless, yet frail-and, clasping his chill hands,

Blesses your pencill'd beauty. Mid the pomp Of mountain summits rushing on the sky, And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe, He bows to bind you drooping to his breast, Inhales your spirit from the frost-wing'd gale, And freer dreams of heaven.

A mother yields her gem to thee,

On thy true breast to sparkle rare;
She places 'neath thy household tree
The idol of her fondest care;
And by thy trust to be forgiven,

When judgment wakes in terror wild, By all thy treasured hopes of heaven, Deal gently with the widow's child.

CONTENTMENT.

THINK'ST thou the steed that restless roves
O'er rocks and mountains, fields and groves,
With wild, unbridled bound,
Finds fresher pasture than the bee,
On thymy bank or vernal tree,
Intent to store her industry

Within her waxen round?

Think'st thou the fountain forced to turn
Through marble vase or sculptured urn,
Affords a sweeter draught

Than that which, in its native sphere,
Perennial, undisturb'd and clear,
Flows, the lone traveller's thirst to cheer,
And wake his grateful thought?

Think'st thou the man whose mansions hold
The worldling's pomp and miser's gold,
Obtains a richer prize

Than he who, in his cot at rest,
Finds heavenly peace, a willing guest,
And bears the promise in his breast
Of treasure in the skies?

THE WIDOW'S CHARGE AT HER DAUGHTER'S BRIDAL.

DEAL gently, thou, whose hand has won
The young bird from the nest away,
Where, careless 'neath a vernal sun,

She gayly caroll'd day by day:
The haunt is lone, the heart must grieve,
From whence her timid wing doth soar,
They pensive list, at hush of eve,

Yet hear her gushing song no more.

Deal gently with her: thou art dear
Beyond what vestal lips have told,
And like a lamb, from fountain clear,
She turns confiding to the fold;
She round thy sweet, domestic bower
The wreaths of changeless love shall twine,
Watch for thy step at vesper hour,

And blend her holiest prayer with thine.

Deal gently, thou, when far away,

Mid stranger scenes her foot shall rove, Nor let thy tender cares decay,

The soul of woman lives in love; And shouldst thou, wondering, mark a tear Unconscious from her evelid break,

Be pitiful, and sooth the fear

That man's strong heart can ne'er partake.

BERNARDINE DU BORN.

KING HENRY sat upon his throne,
And full of wrath and scorn,
His eye a recreant knight survey'd—
Sir BERNARDINE DU BORN.
And he that haughty glance return'd
Like lion in his lair,

And loftily his unchanged brow

Gleam'd through his crisped hair.

"Thou art a traitor to the realm,

Lord of a lawless band,

The bold in speech, the fierce in broil,
The troubler of our land;

Thy castles, and thy rebel-towers,
Are forfeit to the crown,

And thou beneath the Norman axe
Shalt end thy base renown.

"Deign'st thou no word to bar thy doom,
Thou with strange madness fired?
Hath reason quite forsook thy breast?"
PLANTAGENET inquired.

Sir BERNARD turn'd him toward the king, He blench'd not in his pride;

My reason fail'd, my gracious liege,
The year Prince HENRY died."

Quick at that name a cloud of wo
Pass'd o'er the monarch's brow,
Touch'd was that bleeding chord of love,
To which the mightiest bow.
Again swept back the tide of years,

Again his first-born moved,

The fair, the graceful, the sublime,

The erring, yet beloved.

And ever, cherish'd by his side,
One chosen friend was near,
To share in boyhood's ardent sport
Or youth's untam'd career;
With him the merry chase he sought
Beneath the dewy morn,

With him in knightly tourney rode,
This BERNARDINE DU BORN.

Then in the mourning father's soul
Each trace of ire grew dim.
And what his buried idol loved

Seem'd cleansed of guilt to him-
And faintly through his tears he spake,
"Gon send his grace to thee,
And for the dear sake of the dead,
Go forth-unscathed and free."