There, beings pure as heaven's own air,
Their hopes, their joys, together share;
While hovering angels touch the string,
And seraphs spread the sheltering wing.

There cloudless days and brilliant nights,
Illumed by heaven's refulgent lights;
There, seasons, years, unnoticed roll,
And unregretted by the soul.

Thou little sparkling Star of Even-
Thou gem upon an azure heaven!
How swiftly will I soar to thee,
When this imprisoned soul is free!

FEATS OF DEATH.

I HAVE passed o'er the earth in the darkness of night,
I have walked the wild winds in the morning's broad light;
I have paused o'er the bower where the infant lay sleep-

ing,

And I've left the fond mother in sorrow and weeping.

My pinion was spread, and the cold dew of night
Which withers and moulders the flower in its light,
Fell silently o'er the warm cheek in its glow,
And I left it there blighted, and wasted, and low:
I culled the fair bud, as it danced in its mirth,
And I left it to moulder and fade on the earth.

I paused o'er the valley, the glad sounds of joy
Rose soft through the mist, and ascended on high;
The fairest were there, and I paused in my flight,
And the deep cry of wailing broke wildly that night.

I stay not to gather the lone one to earth,

I spare not the young in their gay dance of mirth;
But I sweep them all on to their home in the grave,
I stop not to pity--I stay not to save.

I paused in my pathway, for beauty was there:
It was beauty too death-like, too cold, and too fair!
The deep purple fountain seemed melting away,
And the faint pulse of life scarce remembered to play:
She had thought on the tomb, she was waiting for me,
I gazed, I passed on, and her spirit was free.

The clear stream rolled gladly, and bounded along,
With ripple, and murmur, and sparkle, and song;
The minstrel was tuning his wild harp to love,
And sweet, and half-sad were the numbers he wove.

I passed, and the harp of the bard was unstrung; O'er the stream which rolled deeply, 't was recklessly hung;

The minstrel was not! and I passed on alone,

O'er the newly raised turf, and the rudely carved stone.

STANZAS.

Addressed to her Sister, requesting her to sing "Moore's Farewell to his Harp."

WHEN evening spreads her shades around,

And darkness fills the arch of heaven,

When not a murmur, not a sound

To Fancy's sportive ear is given;

When the broad orb of heaven is bright,
And looks around with golden eye;

When Nature, softened by her light,
Seems calmly, solemnly to lie;-

Then, when our thoughts are raised above
This world, and all this world can give,
Oh, sister! sing the song I love,
And tears of gratitude receive.

The song which thrills my bosom's core,
And, hovering, trembles half afraid,
Oh, sister! sing the song once more
Which ne'er for mortal ear was made.

"T were almost sacrilege to sing
Those notes amid the glare of day;
Notes borne by angels' purest wing,
And wafted by their breath away.

When sleeping in my grass-grown bed,
Shouldst thou still linger here above,
Wilt thou not kneel beside my head,
And, sister, sing the song I love?

·

FRAGMENT.*

THERE is a something which I dread,

It is a dark, a fearful thing;

It steals along with withering tread,

Or sweeps on wild destruction's wing.

That thought comes o'er me in the hour
Of grief, of sickness or of sadness;

*These lines are the last she ever wrote; they were left thus unfinished.

"T is not the dread of death-'t is more, It is the dread of madness!

Oh! may these throbbing pulses pause,
Forgetful of their feverish course;
May this hot brain, which burning glows
With all a fiery whirlpool's force,

FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. OSGO

MRS. OSGOOD, formerly Miss Locke, has only been known to the public as a writer, by her signature of "Florence." The beauty and merit of her poetry, however, fully entitle her to a place in our Wreath. Her genius, like the sweet "Lily of the Valley," sung by Percival, has found a green spot," in which to bloom in the midst of life's busy throng.

66

"The din of the city disturbed it not,

For the spirit that shades the quiet cot
With its wings of love was there."

Frances Locke is sister, by the maternal side, of Anna Maria Wells: she was born in Boston, where she has constantly resided, till about a year since, when she married Mr. Osgood, a young artist of much promise, and immediately accompanied her husband to Europe. They are now settled in London, where Mr. Osgood has, we learn, been very kindly encouraged in portrait painting, (the branch of art to which he chiefly devotes himself,) by many noble and eminent patrons. Mrs. Osgood has also found friends, as one so amiable and gifted could hardly fail to do, who are fostering her genius with the " warm breath" of praise, so very pleasant, when given by those we honor and love. Several of her articles have already appeared in the London periodicals, and she is receiving that attention