soars above the pile of glittering dust before them; who imagine they read by its false light God's whole revelation to man, and by its duration they compute their own immortality. True, the gold does not rust, but their reasons will; it will still shine, though the light of intelligence has faded from their eyes. To such, the fair face of nature soon grows wan and familiar; and to such only does her book present a universal blank.
From Frances Brown's volume of collected poems, we have made the following selections as specimens of her style:
The summer day had reach'd its calm decline,
When the young painter's chosen task was done-
At a low lattice, wreathed with rose and vine,
And open to the bright descending sun,
And ancient Alps, whose everlasting snows
And forests round that lonely valley rose;
Yet lovely was the brow, and bright the hair
His pencil pictured-for an Alpine maid,
In blooming beauty, sat before him there,
And well had the young artist's hand portray'd
The daughter of the south, whose youthful prime
Was bright as noontide in her native clime.
Perchance the maiden dreamt not that amid
The changeful fortune of his after days,
That early-treasured image should abide―
The only landmark left for memory's gaze.
Perchance the wanderer deemed his path too dim
And cold for such bright eyes to shine on him;
For silently he went his lonely way—
And like the currents of far parted streams,
Their years flow'd on; but many a night and day
The same green valley rose upon their dreams-
To him with her young smile and presence bright-
To her with the old home-fire's love and light;
For she, too, wander'd from its pleasant bowers,
To share a prouder home and nobler name
In a far land. And on his after hours
The golden glow of Art's bright honors came;
And time roll'd on, but found him still alone,
And true to the first love his heart had known
At length, within a proud and pictured hall
He stood, amid a noble throng, and gazed
Upon one lovely form—which seem'd of all
Most loved of sages, and by poets praised
In many a song-but to the painter's view
It had a spell of power they never knew;
For many an eye of light and form of grace
Had claim'd his magic pencil since its skill
To canvas gave the beauty of that face:
But in his memory it was brighter still;
And he had given life's wealth to meet again
The sunny smile that shone upon him then.
There came a noble matron to his side,
With mourning robes and darkly-flowing vail,
Yet much of the world's splendor and its pride,
Around long-silver'd hair and visage pale;
But at one glance-though changed and dim, that eye
Lit up the deserts of his memory.
It brought before his sight the vale of vines,
The rose-wreath'd lattice, and the sunset sky,
Far gleaming through the old majestic pines
That clothed the Alpine steeps so gloriously
And, oh! was this the face his art portray'd,
Long, long ago beneath their peaceful shade!
The star his soul had worship'd through the past,
With all the fervor of untutor'd truth-
Eis early loved and longed for-who at last
Gazed on that glorious shadow of her youth!
And youth had perish'd from her-but there stay'd
With it a changeless bloom that could not fade;
The winters had not breath'd upon its prime-
For life's first roses hung around it now,
Unblanch'd by all the waves and storms of time
That swept such beauty from the living brow-
And withering age, and deeply-cankering care,
Had left no traces of their footsteps there.
The loved one and the lover both were changed,
Far changed in fortune, and perchance in soul;
And they whose footsteps fate so far estranged,
At length were guided to the same bright goal
Of early hopes: but, oh, to be once more
As they had been in that sweet vale of yore!
They cast upon each other one long look;
And hers was sad-it might be with regret
For all the true love lost; but his partook
Of woe, whose worldless depth was darker yet,
For life had lost its beacon, and that brow
Could be no more his star of promise now.
And once again the artist silently
Pass'd from her presence. But, from that sad hour,
As though he feared its fading heart and eye,
Forsook all mortal beauty for the power
Of deathless art. By far and fabled streams
He sought the sculptured forms of classic dreams,
And pictured glories of Italian lore,
But looked on living beauty never more.
"Miss Brown," says the learned Dr. Kitto, "uses shade and shadow as synonymous. Of shade she could have an idea, from having herself, when under a tree, realized the consciousness of being screened from the warmth of the sun; but of shadow, as distinct from shade, she does not appear to have had al idea, for whenever she does use it, shade is meant. ́ ́
One of the present writers, who has been blind from birth, adds, “I have always had a notion of some difference between shade and shadow. Shade appears to me much darker, and more confused than shadow. Shade has no particular form, while shadow takes the shape of the object by which it is cast." We see no reason why Miss Brown should have had a less distinct idea of the difference between shade and shadow than of the difference in the two primary colors, yellow and orange. We are not willing to believe that she was totally ignorant of the import of the words shade and shadow. We give, however, a brief extract from her "Lessons of the Louvre," and leave the reader to judge for himself:
"So spake the sun of Gallic fame,
When, on his conquering noon,
No dimly distant shadow came
Of clouds to burst too soon-
But o'er the crown'd and laurel'd brow
There passed a shade the while,
That dimm'd the dark eye's haughty glow,
And quench'd the scornful smile."
Where may that glorious land be found
Which countless bards have sung-
The chosen of the nations, crown'd
With fame, forever young!
A fame that fill'd the Grecian sea;
And rang through Roman skies;
O! ever bright that land must be-
But tell us where it lies!
The rose-crown'd summer ceaseless shines
On orient realms of gold,
The holy place of early shrines,
The fair, the famed of old;
But ages on their flood have borne
Away the loftiest fane,
Yet left upon the lands of Morn
A still unbroken chain.
The West-O! wide its forests wave,
But long the setting sun
Hath blush'd to see the toiling slave
On fields for freedom won;
Still mighty in their seaward path
Roll on the ancient floods,
That miss the brethren of their youth,
The dwellers of the woods.
The North with misty mantle lowers
On nations wise and brave,
Who gather from a thousand shores
The wealth of land and wave;
But stains are on their boasted store-
Though Freedom's shrine be fair,
"Tis empty-or they bow before
A gilded idol there!
The South-the cloudless South-expands
Her deserts to the day,
Where rove those yet unconquer'd bands,
Who own no scepter's sway;
But wherefore is the iron with
Our golden image blent?
For, see, the harem-bars reach forth
Into the Arab's tent.
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