To a Poetess [pp. 641-642]

180. 1-eia Spcmn.T o-s 4
POETICAL SPECIMENS.
Yes, here she lies in dreamless sleep,
Here with moveles s limbs she lies,
Here she rests in slumbers deep,
Ever with unclosing eyes!
Yes, here she rests-the brilliant bloom
That once bedecked her smiling face,
Is faded in the blighting tomb,
And nought can that fled bloom replace.
Here lies my Laura! Day by day,
Her beauteous cheek grew still more wvan,
And faster grew the pale decay,
Until I shuddered-I a man!
Well, passing strange, at length she died!
And left me childless and alone:
I stood the breathless clay beside,
Incapable of tear or groan.
Here lies my Laura! touch the stone!
Does it not send a very chill?
Cold as this marble's face her own,
And white as this she slumbers still;
Here sleeps she sweetly —falter not,
For sound can never reach her ear:
How can I but deplore my lot And mourn that Laura slumbers here?
SHE IS LEAVING THE LAND.
MR. T. W. WHITE.
Dear Sir:-I wish to submit to your readers the following poetical specimens, inasmuch as taken into consideration with the circumstances under which they were composed, they appear to me remarkable. The writer is a girl
of fourteen years of age, who resides a few miles from this
city. Without a single advantage of education, she has
produced poems which shame the efforts of some highly
educated minds, which, in opposition to the original decree
in relation to them, aspire to be thought poetical. She has
never been at school, and the little education she possesses,
she acquired at home. Her social advantages have been
but few. Like a bird, she pours forth her melody on the
air, unconscious of the sweetness of her own song. Without a knowledge of the value of her own thoughts, she
scatters them among her few friends with great prodigality.
She is unacquainted with the depth of her musings, and
like a fountain which gushes up in the wilderness, sending
forth its crystal waters reflecting bird and branch and star,
she is heedless whither her fancies wander. What she has
written has been produced without labor, and without the
remotest idea that any others than a few friends will ever
see them. Under such disadvantages, she has produced a
great many poems of very unequal merit, some of them of
considerable length. I have but few in my possession, and
from them I shall select those which are most convenient
and best suited to my purpose, which is to show that an
uninstructed mind, on which genius has breathed its power,
is vastly richer in intellectual jewelry than the common
mind, whose energies have been developed under all the
favorable auspices of education and society.
Without further comment, I offer the following poems to
the consideration of your readers. Yours, &c.
Louisville, Ky., July, 1840.
She is leaving the land the he free and the brave,
The land where in childhood so gaily she roved,
And sadly she gazes upon the blue wave
Which bears he r a way fr om the lan d she has loved.
She aze is uponas the gle hills as they rise,
And turns to the oa k that flings forth a deep shade;
And sadly she looks with h er dark, tearful eyes,
On scenes that from memory never can fade.
Oh! well she'll remember the glen and the fount,
And fondly she'll think of the lark's happy song,
When her spirit unshackled high upwards would mount,
And soar with the Eagle in glory along.
In splendor amid the light throng she will stand,
She will smile while the tears in her dark eyes shall fill,
And tho' proudly her heart beat in a far distant land,
Its home-its best home-is America still.
The day is waning fast, love,
My bark is on the sea;
My spirit seeks the past, love,
And one sweet thought of thee.
Ye zephyrs loose your wirngs,
Your pinions spread on high,.
And cool my burning brow
And hush my bosom's sigh.
There's music on the sea, love,
And calmness on the deep;
But while 1 dream of thee, love,
My heart can never sleep.
The sun is setting clear
Behind yon distant isle,
But sunbeams shine less fair,
Less bright than Ellen's smile.
Hfail, gifted one of song!
Whose harp, breathed on by the inspiring Nine,
Pours its rich stream of melody divine,
Our western land along!
Genius, proud girl, is thine!
Thou wav'st thy sceptre o'er far fairy land,
And to thy brow full many a flowery band
Come up as to a shrinie!
Girl of the eagle eye!
No earth-born mists thy searching vision shrouid,
But far beyond the tempest and the cloud
Thy raptured glances fly.
These beautiful lines are doubtless addressed to the
young and lovely disciple of the Nine, whose early musings
we publish in the present number-and which come so
highly commended from our accomplished Louisville correspondent. The youthful and charming poetess must have
been in his mind's eye, although for some reason he has
failed to give us that assurance. See the article headed
" Poetical Specimens."-Ed. Lit. M'ess.
They tell us that for every smile,
A tear will meet the eye,
But you and I will take the glee,
And leave behind the sigh.
And if the chiords our fingers touch,
Expend no music there;
We'll leave at once the senseless things
And other's seek, as fair.
And if dark clouds o'ershade the morn
And beams of sunshine die,
We'll fix a smle within our hearts
And leave behind the sigh.
VOL. VI-SI81
1840.]
Poetical Specimens.-To a Poetess.
641
THE GRAVE OF LAURA.
A SOG.
TO A POETESS.-*
TO A FRIEND.