Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the nightly shore- Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, Of Never-never more.'" But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore, What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch!" I cried, "thy god hath lent thee-by these angels he hath sent thee Respite-respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, O quaff, this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the Raven: "Never more!" "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil! "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil! "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting "Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken !-quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven: "Never more." And the Raven never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor, FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD, 1812-1850. THIS distinguished female poet was the daughter of Joseph Locke, a merchant of Boston, and was born in that city about the year 1812.' Her early life was passed principally in Hingham, a beautiful village on the shores of Massachusetts Bay; and here she early displayed that poetical genius which has given her a place among our first poets for delicate fancy, and ease and naturalness of versification. Her first printed productions appeared in Mrs. L. M. Child's "Juvenile Miscellany," when she was about seventeen years of age. Soon after this, Mrs. Anna Maria Wells, her half-sister, on her mother's side, was no mean poetess; and Mr. A. A. Locke, her brother, was a fine writer, both in prose and verse, and a contributor for many years to some of the Boston journals. she wrote for the "Ladies' Magazine," edited by Mrs. Sarah J. Hale, under the signature of Florence. In 1835, she was married to Mr. S. S. Osgood, a distinguished portrait-painter, and a man of a highly cultivated literary taste, who fully appreciated the genius of his wife. Soon after their marriage, they went to London, where Mr. Osgood received great encouragement in the line of his art, while his wife published a small volume called "The Casket of Fate," and also a collection of her poems, under the title of "A Wreath of Wild Flowers from New England," both of which were much admired, and favorably noticed in some of the leading literary journals. In 1840, Mr. and Mrs. Osgood returned to the United States, and after being some time in Boston, took up their residence in New York. Here she wrote continually for the magazines, and edited "The Poetry of Flowers and the Flowers of Poetry," and "The Floral Offering," two richly illustrated souvenirs. But her health began gradually to decline, and in the winter of 1847-8, she was so much of an invalid as to be confined to the house. Her husband's health, also, was feeble, and he was advised to seek a change of climate. The next year, as her health improved, Mr. Osgood sailed for California, with fine prospects there in the line of his profession. He returned in 1850, with his fortunes as well as health improved, but just in time to be with his wife in the last few weeks of her life. A few days before she died, "she wrote for a young girl at her side, who was making and teaching her to make paper flowers, the following lines: You're woven roses round my way, And gladdened all my being; How much I thank you, none can say, Save only the All-seeing. I'm going through the eternal gates, Death's lovely angel leads me there, And it is sweet to go. The touching prophecy was fulfilled by her calm death, five days after, on Sunday afternoon, May 12, 1850. Her remains were removed to Boston, and laid beside those of her mother and daughter, at Mount Auburn, on Wednesday of the same week." Of the character of her poetry one of our own poets thus speaks :— "Mrs. Osgood has a rich fancy-even a rich imagination-a scrupulous taste, a faultless style, and an ear finely attuned to the delicacies of melody. In that vague and anomalous something which we call grace, for want of a more definite term, and which, perhaps, in its 1 Duyckinek. supreme development, may be found to comprehend nearly all that is genuine in poetry-in this magical quality-magical, because at once so shadowy and so irresistible, Mrs. Osgood has assuredly no superior in America, if, indeed, she has any equal under the sun." MAY-DAY IN NEW ENGLAND. Can this be May? Can this be May? We have not found a flower to-day! We roamed the wood-we climbed the hill- And lest they had forgot the day, We told them it was May, dear May! We called the sweet wild blooms by name- From smiling field, or solemn hill- Just breathe from out their hiding-places; They needn't show their bashful faces- As those who do not choose to hear! You have not found a flower to-day! And worth all Nature's blooming wealth; Edgar A. Poe. Ah! cherish them, my happy child, "Can this be May? Can this be May ?" THE MORNING WALK, OR THE STOLEN BLUSH. Never tell me that cheek is not painted, false maid! Those exquisite blushes themselves would betray it. Which I could not mistake, I determined to follow. Illumining meadow, and mountain, and rill. And Health, floating up through the luminous air, Dipped her fingers of snow in those clouds growing bright; Then turn'd, and dash'd down o'er her votary fair A handful of rose-beams that bathed her in light. Even yet they're at play here and there in your form, Now deepen the crimson that lives in your lips. THE CHILD PLAYING WITH A WATCH. Art thou playing with Time in thy sweet baby-glee? |