THE FROZEN DOVE. AWAY, away from the path, silly dove, Allured by the brightness of day, For here, with the snow at thy breast, Poor bird! thou hast pictured the fate How oft for illusions that shine 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, The chilling blast blew round thee, And thou alone wert hiding The mossy rocks between, And while my hand was brushing So modest, fair, and fragrant, Thou didst reward my ramble As some sweet flower of pleasure '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 poetesses 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 case. Wealth makes smooth the path of life before her, and herhusbandand children engross her heartwhat she writes is, therefore, from the impulse of genius, or the desire to oblige her friends. CLARA. "You bear a gentle mind, and heavenly blessings HENRY VIII. SHE had sprung up like a sweet wild flower, hid The light and dews of heaven; and ne'er was found 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; But in her heart there was one unbreathed thought, |