That was so exquisitely pure, the dew
Of the damp grave has fallen! Who, so loved,
Is left among the living? Who hath walk'd
The world with such a winning loveliness,
And on its bright brief journey, gather'd up
Such treasures of affection? She was loved
Only as idols are. She was the pride
Of her familiar sphere-the daily joy
Of all who on her gracefulness might gaze,
And in the light and music of her way,

Have a companion's portion. Who could feel,
While looking upon beauty such as hers,
That it would ever perish1It is like

The melting of a star into the sky

While you are gazing on it, or a dream

In its most ravishing sweetness rudely broken.'

(2.) MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY, of Connecticut: born in 1797. Her poetical productions are very numerous. Her contributions to periodical works are very frequent, and, in general, excellent, always so in respect to their religious spirit and tendency. She deserves the gratitude of her age for her numerous writings, both in prose and poetry. Among the former stand high in public favor her "Letters to Young Ladies."

In her elegant work, "Pleasant Memoirs of Pleasant Lands," published since her recent visit to England, we find the following notice of the poet Southey, whom she declined going to see on account of his mental derangement:

I thought to see thee in thy lake-girt home,

Thou of creative soul! I thought with thee
Amid thy mountain solitudes to roam,

And hear the voice whose echoes, wild and free,

Had strangely thrill'd me, when my life was new,
With old romantic tales of wondrous lore;
But ah! they told me that thy mind withdrew
Into tny mystic cell-nor evermore

Sat on the lip, in fond, familiar word,

Nor through the speaking eye her love repaid, Whose heart for thee with ceaseless care is stirr'd, Both night and day; upon her willow shade Her sweet harp hung. They told me, and I wept, As on my pilgrim way o'er England's vales I kept." A fine critic in the "North American Review" of

1835, bears the following just tribute to Mrs Sigour ney:

"The excellence of all her poems is quiet and unassuming. They are full of the sweet images and bright associations of domestic life; its unobtrusive happiness, its unchanging affections, and its cares and sorrows; of the feelings naturally inspired by life's vicissitudes, from the cradle to the deathbed; of the hopes that burn, like the unquenched altar-fire, in that chosen dwelling-place of virtue and religion. The light of a pure and unostentatious faith shines around them, blending with her thoughts, and giving a tender coloring to her contemplations, like the melancholy beauty of our own autumnal scenery."

We only add the following beautiful lines on the

MARRIAGE OF THE DEAF AND DUMB.

No word! no sound! But yet a solemn rite
Proceedeth through the festive, lighted hall.
Hearts are in treaty, and the soul doth take

That oath, which, unabsolved, must stand till death,
With icy seal, doth stamp the scroll of life.
No word! no sound! But still yon holy man,
With strong and graceful gesture, doth impose
The irrevocable vow, and with meek prayer
Present it to be register'd in Heaven.

Methinks this silence heavily doth brood
Upon the spirit. Say, thou flower-crown'd bride,
What means the sigh which from that ruby lip
Doth 'scape, as if to seek some element

Which angels breathe?

Mute! mute! 'tis passing strange
Like necromancy all. And yet, 'tis well;
For the deep trust with which a maiden cast
Her all of earth, perchance her all of heaven,
Into a mortal's hand, the confidence
With which she turns in every thought to him,
Her more than brother, and her next to God,
Hath never yet been shadow'd out in word,
Or told in language.

So, ye voiceless pair

Pass on in hope. For ye may build as firm
Your silent altar in each others' hearts,

And catch the sunshine through the clouds of tin e

As cheerily, as though the pomp of speech

Did herald forth the deed. And when ye dwell

Where flower fades not, and death no treasured link
Hath power to sever more, ye need not mourn
The ear sequestrate, and the tuneless tongue,
For there the eternal dialect of love

Is the free breath of every happy soul.

SECTION VII.

(1.) HANNAH F. GOULD, of Vermont, has acquired considerable reputation by her numerous contribu tions to newspapers of the day.

The critic last quoted speaks of Miss Gould, as a writer of poetry, in the following beautiful terms:

"One of the principal attractions of her writings is their perfect freedom from pretension; she composes without the slightest effort to do more than to express her own thoughts in the most unaffected language; in this way, however, she produces more ef fect than she could do by laborious effort.

"Miss Gould is uniformly faithful to nature. Like Mrs. Sigourney, she gathers the wild flowers of the rock and dell; and she does more; she collects those which many pass by unnoticed, as too common and familiar to be entitled to a place in an ornamental garland; but she looks upon them as the works of God, and fitted to convey a striking moral. This, doubtless, is the secret of her popularity."

THE SILVER-BIRD'S NEST.

BY MISS H. F. GOULD

We were shown a beautiful specimen of the ingenuity of birds, a few days since, by Dr. Cook of this borough. It was a bird's nest made entirely of silver wires, beautifully woven together. The nest was found on a sycamore-tree, by Dr. Francis Beard, of York County. It was the nest of a hanging-bird, and the material was probably cbtained from a soldier's epaulet which it had found.-Westchester Village Record, 1838

A stranded soldier's epaulet,

The waters cast ashore,

A little winged rover met,
And eyed it o'er and o'er.

The silver bright so pleased her sight,

On that lone, idle vest,

She knew not why she should deny
Herself a silver nest

The shining wire she peck'd and twirl'd;
Then bore it to her bough,

Where on a flowery twig 'twas curl'd,
The bird can show you how;

But when enough of that bright stuff
The cunning builder bore

Her house to make, she would not take,
Nor did she covet, more.

And when the little artisan,

While neither pride nor guilt
Had enter'd in her pretty plan,
Her resting-place had built;
With here and there a plume to spare
About her own light form,

Of these, inlaid with skill, she made
A lining soft and warm.

But, do you think the tender brood
She fondled there, and fed,

Were prouder when they understood
The sheen about their bed?

Do you suppose they ever rose,
Of higher powers possess'd,

Because they knew they peep'd and grew
Within a silver nest?

(2) LUCRETIA and MARGARET DAVIDSON, New-York are remarkable for the early development of their poetic capacities. Both died before they had reached seventeen years of age. Their writings have been collected by Washington Irving, accompanied with an interesting memoir.

(3.) JAMES G. PERCIVAL, of Connecticut, born 1795. His first published volume contains many poems written in his seventeenth year. His early publications gave just offence by their sceptical sentiments, but his later writings are said to be free from these. It is stated that none of our poets surpass Dr. Percival in learning, scholarship, or universality of information. According to Mr. Kettell, "his poetry is more imaginative than sentimental, rather diffuse, and often negligent But his language is well selected and picturesque, bold and idiomatic; his verse is harmonious, and contains many of those sweet and hallowed forms of expression which render poetry the repository of the most striking truths, as well as the vehicle of the

finest emotions. His delineations of human feeling and conduct are sometimes beyond life and nature, and bordering on the extravagant."

You are now presented with his affecting picture of

"I had a husband once, who loved me: now
He ever wears a frown upon his brow,
And feeds his passion on a wanton's lip,
As bees, from laurel flowers, a poison sip;
But yet I can not hate. Oh! there were hours
When I could hang forever on his eye,
And Time, who stole with swiftness by,
Strew'd, as he hurried on, his path with flowers
I loved him then-he loved me too. My heart
Still finds its fondness kindle, if he smile;
The memory of our loves will ne'er depart;
And though he often sting me with a dart,
Venom'd and barb'd, and waste upon the vile
Caresses which his babe and mine should share;
Though he should spurn me, I will calmly bear
His madness; and should sickness come, and lay
Its paralyzing hand upon him, then

I would, with kindness, all my wrongs repay,
Until the penitent should weep, and say
How injured, and how faithful I had been."

SECTION VIII.

(1.) J. G. C. BRAINERD, of Connecticut, died 1828. His collection of poems consists of articles written nastily for a weekly newspaper edited by him; yet, says Mr. Kettell, "these productions, so little elaborated, and written under various causes of enervation, are stamped with an originality, boldness, force, and pathos, illustrative of genius, not, perhaps, inferior to that of Burns, and certainly much resembling it in kind. No man ever thought his own thoughts more independently than he did."

Read his lines on

THE INDIAN SUMMER.

"What is there saddening in the autumn leaves?
Have they that 'green and yellow melancholy'
That the sweet poet spake of? Had he seen
Our variegated woods, when first the frost