Gleam'd in the crackling fire, that shed His wife had clasp'd his hand, and now His child was prattling by; The hound crouch'd, dozing, near the blaze, That pass'd;-before his swimming sight And a soft voice, with wild delight, No, hunter, no! 'tis but the streak Of whirling snow,-the tempest's shriek,No human aid is near! Never again that form will meet Thy clasp'd embrace,-those accents sweet Speak music to thine ear. Morn broke;-away the clouds were chased, And on its blue the branches traced And, scatter'd round, low points of green, Told where the thickets stood. In a deep hollow, drifted high, A diamond blaze it shone; Unsullied, smooth, and fair It seem'd, like other mounds, where trunk Spring came with wakening breezes bland, And, touch'd by her Ithuriel wand, In a deep nook, where moss and grass A mother, kneeling with her child, FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD, 1812-1850. FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD 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 best 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, she wrote for the "Ladies' Magazine," edited by Mrs. Sarah J. Hale, under the signature of "Florence." In 1835, she was married to Mr. Samuel S. Osgood, an artist of distinction and of 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 exercise 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 1847-48, 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 his wife's health improved, Mr. Osgood sailed for California, with fine prospects there in the line of his profession. He returned early 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; for, five days after, she breathed her last, on the 12th of May. Her remains were removed to Boston, and laid beside those of her mother and daughter, at Mount Auburn, on Wednesday of the same week.2 NEW ENGLAND'S MOUNTAIN-CHILD. Where foams the fall-a tameless storm- 1 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. 2 Of the character of her poetry Edgar A. Poe thus writes:-" 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 supreme development, may be found to comprehend nearly all that is genuine 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." She binds not her luxuriant hair She clasps no golden zone of pride And thus attired,—a sportive thing, Pure, loving, guileless, bright, and wild,- She scorns to sell her rich, warm heart And, once bestow'd, no fortune-change Her foot will bound as light and free In lowly hut, as palace-hall; Her sunny smile as warm will be,- Hast seen where in our woodland-gloom A MOTHER'S PRAYER IN ILLNESS. Yes, take them first, my Father! Let my doves Their young hearts here, their innocent, thoughtless hearts! My May my careless, ardent-temper'd May, With her clear, flutelike voice, "Do you love me?" To answer her and meet her warm caress! For, I away, how oft in this rough world In which each shade that dims her darling face Is felt and answer'd, as the lake reflects The clouds that cross yon smiling heaven! And thou, My modest Ellen,-tender, thoughtful, true; Thy soul attuned to all sweet harmonies: My pure, proud, noble Ellen! with thy gifts Of genius, grace, and loveliness, half hidden 'Neath the soft veil of innate modesty, How will the world's wild discord reach thy heart Of all things base and mean,-thy quick, keen taste, In their young, timid souls, forgiveness find? Ah, take them first, my Father, and then me! And for their sakes, for their sweet sakes, my Father, Let me find rest beside them, at thy feet! LABORARE EST ORARE. Pause not to dream of the future before us: Unintermitting, goes up into heaven! Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing; More and more richly the Roseheart keeps glowing, "Labor is worship!"-the robin is singing; Speaks to thy soul from out nature's great heart. From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower; From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing flower; From the small insect, the rich coral bower; Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part. Labor is life!-'Tis the still water faileth; Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth; Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth! Only the waving wing changes and brightens ; Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in tune! Labor is rest, from the sorrows that greet us; Labor is health,-lo! the husbandman reaping, Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are round thee! Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee! Rest not content in thy darkness,—a clod! Work-for some good, be it ever so slowly; Labor!-all labor is noble and holy: Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God. WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH. WILLIAM HENRY BURLEIGH was born in Woodstock, Connecticut, on the 2d of February, 1812. In his infancy his parents removed to Plainfield, where his father was principal of an academy until from loss of sight he was compelled to resign his charge. He then retired to a farm, so that the son passed the principal years of his boyhood in agricultural labors, with no other means of educa tion than those which a district school afforded, till he reached his seventeenth year, when he was apprenticed to the printing-business. Since that period, his life has been singularly varied, his time having been divided between the duties of a printer and editor, and a public lecturer. He conducted at one time "The Literary Journal," published at Schenectady. Afterwards, for more than two years, he edited "The Christian Witness," at Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, and re |