It left my full soul, like the wing of a dove, I know that each moment of rapture or pain THE OLD MAID. Why sits she thus in solitude? her heart As if to let its heavy throbbings through; It is her thirtieth birthday! with a sigh Her soul hath turn'd from youth's luxuriant bowers, And her heart taken up the last sweet tie That measured out its links of golden hours! She feels her inmost soul within her stir With thoughts too wild and passionate to speak; Joy's opening buds, affection's glowing flowers, And yet she does not wish to wander back! On pleasures past, though never more to be: Hope links her to the future,—but the link That binds her to the past is memory! From her lone path she never turns aside, Though passionate worshippers before her fall, Like some pure planet in her lonely pride, She seems to soar and beam above them all! Not that her heart is cold!-emotions new And fresh as flowers are with her heart-strings knit: For she hath lived with heart and soul alive Sweet Thoughts, like honey-bees, have made their hive Yet life is not to her what it hath been: Her soul hath learn'd to look beyond its gloss, And now she hovers like a star between Her deeds of love,-her Saviour on the cross! Yet, sometimes o'er her trembling heart-strings thrill With wild and passionate thoughts the craving void. That, yearning, throbs within her virgin breast, ON SEEING AN INFANT SLEEPING UPON ITS MOTHER'S BOSOM. It lay upon its mother's breast, a thing Bright as a dew-drop when it first descends, Or as the plumage of an angel's wing Where every tint of rainbow-beauty blends; It had soft violet eyes, that, 'neath each lid There was a beam in that young mother's eye Stirr'd the bright tresses on her infant's cheek, It was a fragrant eve; the sky was full Of burning stars, that tremulously clear My heart grew softer as I gazed upon That youthful mother as she soothed to rest For 'tis a sight that angel ones above May stoop to gaze on from their bowers of bliss, Is cradled, in a sinful world like this. THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. THOMAS BUCHANAN READ was born in Chester County, Pennsylvania, in 1822. At the age of fourteen he removed to Cincinnati, where, from visiting the studio of Clevinger, he became ambitious to be a sculptor. He had made considerable proficiency in the art, when his master left for Europe. But the love of the beautiful was too strong in him to be repressed by such an occurrence, and he resolved to be a painter; and so successful was he in his first efforts that he concluded to go to the East, where he could have better advantages; and accordingly, in 1841 he removed to Boston, where he remained five years in the practice of his profession. Up to this time Mr. Read, though he had frequently written fugitive verses, had published but little; but now he began to contribute to the leading periodicals, and soon became a favorite with readers. Most of his best poems appeared first in "Graham's Magazine." In 1846, he removed to Philadelphia, and in 1850 sailed for Europe, and spent a year in Italy, pursuing his studies as an artist. On his return home, he visited England, where he was engaged to paint a number of portraits, and, while doing so, published a volume of poems, which attracted much notice, and was warmly commended by the London press. Of The Closing Scene, the "North British Review" said, "It is an addition to the permanent stock of poetry in the English language." In 1852, Mr. Read returned home, and passed the following winter in Cincinnati. The next year he went abroad the second time, accompanied by his family, and settled in Florence, enjoying the intercourse of a delightful society of artists and men of letters; and subsequently spent two years in Rome. In 1858, he returned to Philadelphia with some of the richest specimens of art,-the creations of his own genius, all of which were engaged at prices that show that our countrymen know how to appreciate and reward true merit. Mr. Read's first collection of Poems was printed in Boston in 1847. In 1848 he published, in Philadelphia, Lays and Ballads, and in 1853 appeared The Pilgrims of the Great St. Bernard,- -a prose romance. His more recent publications are Sylvia; or the Last Shepherd,-an Eclogue: and other Poems; The House by the Sea,-a Poem ; and The New Pastoral. The last consists of a series of sketches of rustic and domestic life, mostly of primitive simplicity, and so truthful as to be not less valuable as history than attractive as poetry. 1 Beautiful editions of the last three poems have been published by Parry & McMillan. His Selection from the "Female Poets of America, with Biographical Notices," should be noticed,—an elegant book published by E. H. Butler & Co., which has reached the seventh edition. THE CLOSING SCENE. Within this sober realm of leafless trees, The russet year inhaled the dreamy air, All sights were mellow'd, and all sounds subdued, The embattled forests, erewhile arm'd in gold, Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue. On slumberous wings the vulture tried his flight; The village church-vane seem'd to pale and faint. The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crew, Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before, Silent till some replying wanderer blew His alien horn, and then was heard no more. Where erst the jay within the elm's tall crest Made garrulous trouble round the unfledged young; And where the oriole hung her swaying nest By every light wind like a censer swung; Where sang the noisy masons of the eves, An early harvest and a plenteous year; Where every bird which charm'd the vernal feast To warn the reapers of the rosy east, All now was songless, empty, and forlorn. Alone from out the stubble piped the quail, And croak'd the crow through all the dreary gloom; Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale, Made echo to the distant cottage-loom. There was no bud, no bloom, upon the bowers; The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night; The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, Sail'd slowly by-pass'd noiseless out of sight. Amid all this,-in this most cheerless air, And where the woodbine sheds upon the porch Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there, Firing the floor with his inverted torch,— Amid all this, the centre of the scene, The white-hair'd matron, with monotonous tread, Plied her swift wheel, and with her joyless mien Sat like a Fate, and watch'd the flying thread. She had known Sorrow. He had walk'd with her, While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom, Re-gave the swords,-but not the hand that drew, Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune. At last the thread was snapp'd, her head was bow'd: Life droop'd the distaff through his hands serene; And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud, While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene. THE DESERTED ROAD. Ancient road, that wind'st deserted Standing by thee, I look backward, Here I stroll along the village As in youth's departed morn; Miss the crowd of jovial teamsters |