the spontaneous overflowing of her own heart, which seemed filled with thoughts of beauty, and all tender and sweet emotions. By the persuasion of her friends, she was induced to send some of her effusions, anonymously, to different periodicals. These were greatly admired, and often reprinted. Before she was fifteen her name had become known, and she was distinguished as a young lady of uncommon powers of intellect. She was soon an object of attention. Her personal appearance was very prepossessing. She had a countenance bright with the "light of mind," a soft and delicate complexion, a "large loving eye," and a head of that fine "spiritual form," which at once impresses the beholder with the majesty and purity of the mind within.

وو

In the autumn of 1828, Miss Hickman was married to Mr. S. J. Smith, then the editor of a literary periodical in Providence. Soon after her marriage, her husband published a volume of her poems; some collected from the literary journals, and others written as the book was passing through the press. She was then but "careless seventeen, as she says of herself; and it was a hazardous experiment to give a volume of poetry, which must have been, however highly imbued with genius, more fraught with the feelings and sentiments of others, than with those teachings of truth and nature which experience in the real world can only bestow. But the book was popular, and though she would, had she lived till the maturity of her powers, no doubt greatly excelled her early writings, yet, as the blossoms of an original and extraordinary genius, these poems will ever be admired.

And yet it is not as an authoress that she is remembered and lamented by her intimate friends, or by those who had the pleasure of a brief personal acquaintance. "Any literary reputation that she might have acquired, could never have been thought of in her

"It

presence," is the testimony of one who knew her. was the confiding sincerity of her manners, the playfulness of her conversation, her enthusiastic and devoted assiduity to those she loved, which made her presence a perpetual delight."-In her own home she was a model of discretion, cheerfulness and kindness. Her husband was always her lover, and her two little sons she cherished with that peculiar tenderness which only those endowed with the finest sensibilities can feel. Yet, amid all her maternal and household cares, her mind was rapidly gathering strength for higher literary pursuits. She was, at the time of her decease, engaged in reviewing her early opinions on literature, and her early productions, pointing out, and acknowledging her errors and deficiencies, with the most frank honesty, and preparing by study and reflection to make her genius the faithful interpreter of nature and the human heart. What she has written is marked by ease, grace, and that intuitive perception of the beautiful and good, which shows that her imagination was a blessing to herself, as well as a pleasure to others. Her thoughts, as they flowed out in her poetry, have the softness and sweetness of the tones of distant music;-we yield to the spell and treasure the remembrance as a pleasant emotion. Though it may not have made us wiser, it can beguile us of care. And with the refinement of taste and warmth of affections which Mrs. Smith possessed, was united pure, ardent and unaffected piety. The hope of immortality was to her a glorious hope; and the benevolence which the Gospel inculcates, was her cherished feeling. Such was the poetess, who in her youth and loveliness has gone from among us. But we

place her name in our Wreath—a “ Forget-me-not,' which,

"Like purity's own halo light,
Will ever smile upon the sight."

THE HUNTER'S BRIDE.

INDIAN TRADITION.

THE Indian Hunter left his cot,
When the morning sun rode high,
With springing step, for the distant spot
Where the fleet wild deer must die;
And his bride, by the low-roofed cabin door,
Singing some joyous lay,

That softly floated the blue hills o'er,
As his footstep died away.

Pokhawa-pride of the red-man's race,

Flower of her warlike tribe;

She had come, his mountain hearth to grace,

A soft-eyed, dusky bride;

With robe in scarlet berries prest,

And feathers gaily green;

They had robbed the wild bird of his crest,
To deck their dark-eyed queen.

Away-away, his shout is heard

Far over the distant plain;

But at even-fall, like the mountain bird,

He sought his home again.

The quick light step through the forest green Scarce echoed in the glen;

And when evening's last gray light was seen, He stood where his home had been.

But, alas for the hunter! the white man's hand Had fearfully marked the spot,

And left the blackened and smoking brand,

In place of the flower-edged cot.

And where is the "Bird" of the Indian's nest?
They have borne her far away!

And the hopes, that the morning hour saw blest,
Closed with the closing day.

Darkness is on his brow

Deep darkness in his soul,

As he sternly breathed the vengeful vow,
And the words in terror roll!
The night-wind heard and sighed—
The forest branches bowed,

And 't was echoed back by the mountain tide,
In murmurs hoarse and loud!—
The moon went up-and pearly light

Was shed o'er hill and tree;

Darkness should still have veiled a night

That such dark deeds must see.

A fair, young mother lulled a child

To its gentle evening rest;

On its last dim waking look she smiled,

And its lip of beauty prest;

Then watched for the sound of a well-known tread,

As the still hours glided by:

But she never met that sound again,

Or the glance of that love-lit eye.

The Indian Chief from his mountain home
Had crossed the moonlit plain,

And the might of that deep revenge had come,
That was never vowed in vain!

THE HUMA.

"A bird peculiar to the East. It is supposed to fly constantly in the air and never touch the ground."

FLY on! nor touch thy wing, bright bird,

Too near our shaded earth,

Or the warbling, now so sweetly heard,
May lose its note of mirth.

Fly on-nor seek a place of rest

In the home of "care-worn things;"
"T would dim the light of thy shining crest
And thy brightly burnished wings,
To dip them where the waters glide
That flow from a troubled earthly tide.

The fields of upper air are thine,
Thy place where stars shine free:
I would thy home, bright one, were mine,
Above life's stormy sea.

I would never wander, bird, like thee,

So near this place again,

With wing and spirit once light and free

They should wear no more the chain

With which they are bound and fettered here,
Forever struggling for skies more clear.

There are many things like thee, bright bird,

Hopes as thy plumage gay;

Our air is with them forever stirred,

But still in air they stay.

And happiness, like thee, fair one,
Is ever hovering o'er,