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tragedy, which, she said, would be ready long before the dresses —and it was, in fact, written in two days.

This little drama,' says Mr. Irving, 'lies before us [we know not why Mr. Irving thus assumes the style of monarchs and reviewers], a curious specimen of the prompt talents of this most ingenious child, and by no means more incongruous in its incidents than many current dramas by veteran and experienced playwrights.'-p. 32.

We however must say that, from the summary of the plot which he gives us, it seems to have been silly enough, and very little above the years of the young authoress. Her visit to New York, however, produced something better. Their sojourn there was protracted till the heat became oppressive, and she expressed her yearnings for the banks of the Saranac in the following pretty lines:

'I would fly from the city, would fly from its care,
To my own native plants and my flow'rets so fair!
To the cool grassy shade and the rivulet bright,
Which reflects the pale moon on its bosom of light.
Again would I view the old mansion so dear,
Where I sported a babe without sorrow or fear.
I would leave this great city, so brilliant and gay,
For a peep at my home on this pure summer-day.

I have friends whom I love, and would leave with regret,
But the love of my home, Oh 'tis tenderer yet!
There a sister reposes, unconscious, in death-

"T was there she first drew, and there yielded her breath;
A father I love is away from me now-

Oh could I but print a sweet kiss on his brow,

Or smooth the gray locks to my fond heart so dear,

How quickly would vanish each trace of a tear!

Attentive I listen to pleasure's gay call,

But my own darling Home, it is dearer than all.'-p. 32.

But the neighbourhood of Champlain being thought unfavourable for a family of such delicate health, they found a new home in the village of Ballston, where she regretted the wilder scenery of her Native Lake: '

"Thy verdant banks, thy lucid stream,
Lit by the sun's resplendent beam,
Reflect each bending tree so light
Upon thy bounding bosom bright-
Could I but see thee once again,
My own, my beautiful Champlain !
The little isles that deck thy breast,
And calmly on thy bosom rest,
How often in my childish glee

I've sported round them bright and free!
Could I but see thee once again,
My own, my beautiful Champlain !

How

How oft I've watched the fresh'ning shower
Bending the summer tree and flower,
And felt my little heart beat high
As the bright rainbow graced the sky!
Could I but see thee once again,
My own, my beautiful Champlain !

And shall I never see thee more,
My native lake, my much-loved shore?
And must I bid a long adieu,

My dear, my infant home, to you?
Shall I not see thee once again,

My own, my beautiful Champlain ?'

No-she was never again to see her beautiful Champlain;' and the melancholy trials, with which Heaven so frequently balances its highest intellectual gifts, were about to thicken upon this interesting family. The mother a constant sufferer-for ever on the verge of the grave; the child herself alternating between a state of health never better than fragile, and frequent fits of positive disease; and now her eldest and only surviving sister, Mrs. Townshend-to whom she had looked forward to supply the place of the, as it seemed, dying mother-was herself carried off, still young and beautiful, leaving one orphan 'bud of promise.' This was a severe shock to Margaret, whose own state of health had lately assumed a very alarming aspect, but she seemed to rally her energies to alleviate the grief of her mother; and two or three copies of verses, addressed to Mrs. Davidson on this sad occasion, are remarkable, not so much for their poetry as for a strain of sober piety and Christian consolation, much above what we should have expected from the writer's years.

Soon after this affliction, and perhaps in consequence of it, in December, 1834, Margaret was again seized with a liver complaint, which by sympathy affected her lungs, and confined her to her bed for two months, and to her room for two more. During this fit of illness her mind had remained in an unusual state of inactivity, but with the opening of spring and the faint return of health it broke forth with a brilliancy and a restless excitability which astonished and alarmed' her friends; and at this time she poured out in rapid succession many of her best pieces:

'We,' says Mr. Irving, cannot help thinking that these moments of intense poetical exultation sometimes approached to delirium, for we are told by her mother that the image of her departed sister Lucretia mingled in all her aspirations; the holy elevation of Lucretia's character had taken deep hold of her imagination, and in her moments of

enthusiasm

enthusiasm she felt that she held close and intimate communion with her beatified spirit.'-p. 42.

No doubt the extreme and precocious sensibility of both these young creatures was out of the ordinary course of nature, and might be almost called a mental disease, which to a common observer would seem delirious; but we are surprised that a man of Mr. Irving's taste and talents-if he knows no more than he has told us should have seen anything like insanity in either of the girls, and particularly in the very intelligible and natural process by which the enthusiastic recollections of a sister, in all points so like herself, should have blended themselves with Margaret's very existence.

In the autumn of 1835 Dr. Davidson removed his family to a large, commodious, old-fashioned house situate at Ruremont, on the Sound, or East River as it is called, about four miles from New York:

'The wild position and curious structure of this old-fashioned house,' says her mother, with a long gallery, winding staircase, dark and narrow passages, a trap-door, large rooms with massive doors and heavy iron bolts and bars, set her mind teeming with recollections of all she had heard or imagined of old castles, banditti, smugglers, &c. She roamed over the place in perfect ecstacy, peopling every part with images of her own imagination, and fancying it the scene of foregone events of dark and thrilling interest.'-p. 50.

But, strange enough, we do not find in her verses any marked traces of this new and, we should have supposed, enticing train of thought, except, perhaps, in some Stanzas' given without any note or explanation in an earlier page, but which are evidently the longings of a romantic mind for a visit to the old country, excited probably by the old house at Ruremont. We shall extract a few of the best :

'Oh, for the pinions of a bird,

To bear me far away,

Where songs of other lands are heard,
And other waters play!

For some aërial car, to fly
On thro' the realms of light,

To regions ripe with poesy,
And teeming with delight.

O'er many a wild and classic stream
In ecstacy I'd bend;

And hail each ivy-covered tower,

As though it were a friend.

Through

Through many a shadowy grove, and round
Full many a cloistered hall,
And corridors, where every step
With echoing peal doth fall."

Amidst the scenes of past delight
Or misery I'd roam,

Where ruthless tyrants swayed in might-
Where princes found a home-

Where heroes have enwreathed their brows
With chivalric renown,

Where beauty's hand, as valour's meed,
Hath twined the laurel crown.

I'd stand where proudest kings have stood,
Or kneel where slaves have knelt ;

Till, wrapt in magic solitude,

I feel what they have felt!

Oh, for the pinions of a bird

To waft me far away,

Where songs of other lands are heard,
And other waters play!'

Excepting the really beautiful one which we have printed in italic, these stanzas may seem rather vaguely conceived, and negligently versified and those we have omitted are still more so-but as written in the child's tenth, or at latest eleventh, year we think the whole very interesting.

Towards the close of 1835, amidst the anticipations of a joyous Christinas, a new affliction arrived. Two of her brothers were taken ill, and one-Kent-called, we suppose, after Lucretia's benefactor-a beautiful boy nine years old, sank into the grave. Margaret witnessed the last agonies with a patient calm-she stood over the corpse like a statue.' At last she was led away,

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and then tears came to her relief. She, as was her wont, sanctified this event in many pious stanzas, of which the best is, we thinkOh I have heard thy dying groan

Have seen thy last of earthly pain-
And while I weep that thou art gone,

I cannot wish thee here again!'-p. 53.

But a still more painful picture now presents itself!

The anguish of the mother was still more intense, as she saw her bright and beautiful but perishable offspring thus one by one snatched away from her.

"My own weak frame," says she, " was unable longer to sustain the effect of long watching and deep grief. I had not only lost my lovely boy,

boy, but I felt a strong conviction that I must soon resign my Margaret; or rather, that she would soon follow me to a premature grave. Although she still persisted in the belief that she was well, the irritating cough, the hectic flush (so often mistaken for the bloom of health), the hurried beating of the heart, and the drenching night perspirations, confirmed me in this belief, and I sank under this accumulated load of affliction. For three weeks I hovered on the borders of the grave, and when I arose from this bed of pain-so feeble that I could not sustain my own weight, it was to witness the rupture of a blood-vessel in her lungs, caused by exertions to suppress a cough. Oh! it was agony to see her thus! I was compelled to conceal every appearance of alarm, lest the agitation of her mind should produce fatal consequences. As I seated myself by her she raised her speaking eyes to mine with a sorrowful, inquiring gaze, and as she read anguish which I could not conceal, she turned away with a look of despair. She spoke not a word, but silence, still, death-like silence pervaded the apartment. The best of medical aid was called in, but the physicians gave no hope: they considered it as a deep-seated case of pulmonary consumption."-p.55.

It would be painful and profitless to our readers or ourselves to pursue the further details of this touching case, which are but variations of the leading theme-short and transient gleams of health amidst dark, deep, and dismal prospects-until at last, after what we may call the usual vicissitudes of such a disease, borne with exemplary and elevating Christian patience and illustrated by many poetical aspirations, this amiable and gifted child slept, as she herself trusted, in the arms of the Redeemer, and rose as we hope into the bosom of the Creator, on the 25th of November, 1838, aged fifteen years and eight months. Her remains repose in the graveyard of the village of Saratoga.

In the selection we have made of specimens of her poetry we have been guided by Mr. Irving; and though they are all amongst her earliest productions, and, as we have said, of little intrinsic value, we do not know that we could have done much better for her fame :—her later poems, most of them being apparently uncorrected and many evidently unfinished, have, in their present state, a strong tendency to the diffuse and tedious, and there are few of them perhaps that would repay the reader for the space they must absorb; but we think it right to give one at least of her most mature pieces-and we shall select the Dedication, to the Spirit of her Sister Lucretia,' of a poem, called Leonora— the last Margaret ever wrote:

'Oh thou so early lost, so long deplored!
Pure spirit of my sister, be thou near!

And while I touch this hallowed harp of thine,

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Bend from the skies, sweet sister, bend and hear!

For

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