Poor bird! thou hast pictured the fate
Of many in life's changeful day,
Who, trusting, have found but too late
What smiles may be lit to betray.

How oft for illusions that shine

In a cold and a pitiless world, Benighted and palsied like thine,

Has the wing and the spirit been furled!

And hearts the most tender and light,

In their warmth, to the earth have been thrown, 'Mid the chills of adversity's night,

To suffer and perish alone!

THE GROUND LAUREL.

I LOVE thee, pretty nursling
Of vernal sun and rain;
For thou art Flora's firstling,
And leadest in her train.

When far away I found thee,
It was an April morn;

The chilling blast blew round thee,

No bud had decked the thorn.

And thou alone wert hiding

The mossy rocks between,
Where, just below them gliding,
The Merrimac was seen.

And while my hand was brushing
The seary leaves from thee,

It seemed as thou wert blushing
To be disclosed to me.

So modest, fair, and fragrant,
Where all was wild and rude,
To cheer the lonely vagrant
Who crossed thy solitude,-

Thou didst reward my ramble
By shining at my feet,
When, over brake and bramble,
I sought thy lone retreat,-

As some sweet flower of pleasure
Upon our path may bloom,

'Mid rocks and thorns that measure

Our journey to the tomb.

EMMA C. EMBURY.

MRS. EMBURY is a native of New York, and daughter of Doctor Manley, a physician of eminence in that city. She began to write when quite young, her first effusions appearing in the periodicals of the day, over the signature of "Ianthe." Soon after her marriage, in 1828, was published "Guido,—and other Poems;-by Ianthe;" a handsome volume, which attracted considerable attention. The choice of subjects for the principal poems, however, was not fortunate, and in consequence the talents of the authoress did not receive their full meed of praise. She had entered the circle in which L. E. L., Barry Cornwall, and other popular English writers were then strewing with the flowers of fancy and sentiment; and no wonder that the delicate blossoms, offered by our young poetess, were considered merely exotics, which she had trained from a foreign root,beautiful as Camellias, but hardly worth the attempt to cultivate in our cold climate and sterile soil.

It is the natural impulse of poetic and ardent minds to admire the genius and glory of Italy, and to turn to that land of bright skies and passionate hearts for themes of song. Mrs. Embury did but follow the then expressed opinion of all European critics, and the admitted acknowledgment of most Americans, that our new world afforded no subjects propitious for the muses.

Yet surely, in a land where the wonders of nature are on a scale of vast and glorious magnificence which Europe cannot parallel; and the beautiful and the fertile are opening their treasures on every side; and enterprise and change, excitement and improvement, are the elements of social life,-there must be poetry! happily "Gertrude of Wyoming," to say nothing of what American poets have written, has settled the question. We have named this subject, chiefly for the purpose of entreating our American writers to look into their own hearts, not into the poems of others, for inspiration, and to sing, in accordance with Nature and human life around them,

"The beauteous scenes of our own lovely land."

Mrs. Embury has a fertile fancy, and her versification flows with uncommon ease and grace;-she has fine sensibilities, and her pictures of beauty are clear and soft as the summer moonbeams on a placid lake; and in some of her poems there is pathos and deep tenderness. In her later poems she has greatly improved her style—that is, she writes naturally, from her own thoughts and feelings, and not from a model; and some of her short pieces are very beautiful.-She is, too, a popular prose writer; many sketches and stories from her pen enrich our periodical literature. And she is warmly engaged in the cause of improving her own sex, and has written on the subject of "Female Education" with much judgment, discrimination and delicacy.-If she were under a necessity of writing, we should not doubt that she would soon excel; but this is not the Wealth makes smooth the path of life before her, and her husband and children engross her heart— what she writes is, therefore, from the impulse of genius, or the desire to oblige her friends.

case.

CLARA.

"You bear a gentle mind, and heavenly blessings

Follow such creatures."

Henry VIII.

SHE had sprung up like a sweet wild flower, hid
From common eyes, in some lone dell, amid
The light and dews of heaven; and ne'er was found
A purer bud on earth's unhallowed ground.
Her face was fair, but the admiring eye
Loved less its beauty than its purity;

No cloud e'er darkened o'er that placid brow;
No care e'er dimmed her bright smile's sunny glow;
A gentle heart that ne'er had dreamed of sin
Or suffering, shone her dove-like eyes within;
And the high hope that with such calm joy stirs
The trusting soul—the Christian's hope was hers:
"T was this that gave such sweetness to a mien
So softly gay, so peaceful and serene;
Calm without apathy; as woman mild,
Yet innocent and playful as a child.

But in her heart there was one unbreathed thought,
With all a woman's holiest fondness fraught:
Hers was not wild, fierce passion, such as glows
In untamed hearts, but the calm love that grows
Within the soul like an expanding flower,
Breathing its perfume o'er each passing hour:
From infancy it grew.-The graceful boy
To whose embrace she clung with childish joy,
And on whose breast her head had oft reposed
When weariness her infant eyes had closed,