FEATS OF DEATH. I HAVE passed o'er the earth in the darkness of night; My pinion was spread, and the cold dew of night 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; I paused in my pathway, for beauty was there ; The clear stream rolled gladly, and bounded along, 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, 'twas 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, When not a murmur, not a sound To Fancy's sportive ear is given; When the broad crb of heaven is bright, Then, when our thoughts are raised above And tears of gratitude receive. The song which thrills my bosom's core, Oh, sister! sing the song once more 'Which ne'er for mortal ear was made. 'T were almost sacrilege to sing When, sleeping in my grass-grown bed, FRAGMENT.* THERE is a something which I dread,- That thought comes o'er me in the hour Oh! may these throbbing pulses pause, Be cold, and motionless, and still, But let not dark delirium steal. * These lines are the last she ever wrote; they were left thus unfinished. FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 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.— "The din of the city disturb'd it not, For the spirit that shades the quiet cot, 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 from per sons of taste and influence, which, we doubt not, will stimulate her to vigorous application-all that is wanting to insure her success and celebrity. The first poems of " Florence" were printed in the “Juvenile Miscellany," when she could not have been more than sixteen. These early effusions were marked by the same warmth of fancy and elegance of expression, which have distinguished all she has written. Since that period, she has contributed to several periodicals, chiefly to the American Ladies' Magazine, from which the specimens now given are mostly selected. Her poems have never been collected, though they would make a volume very creditable to one of her age. It is, however, better that she should wait till the changes of life shall awaken more of those strong sympathies of the soul, which vivify and elevate the genius of woman. As yet, she has never affected a lofty theme - but takes whatever the passing moment suggests; and generally her heart turns to the dear, cherished affections of home and friends. She is, moreover, of a cheerful temperament, and life, love and happiness, are to her synonymous terms. Hence the deepest tones of her genius have never yet beeen sounded: it is only actual suffering, that will teach a sanguine disposition that there is light in the darkness of affliction, and inspire the muse to picture "beauty for ashes," and describe the "joy of grief," till the soul feels its own immortality made surer, calmer, happier, holier from the doubts, tossings, sorrows, and imperfections of this transitory world. This high moral strain of poetry she has as yet scarcely attempted, because her thoughts have never been turned, by her own feelings, to such subjects. She writes from her feelings, and her common mood of mind is poetical; hence there is a naturalness and simple grace in her metaphors and diction which are original and very pleasing. She composes with great rapidity, bestowing, apparently, no more effort on a poem, than though she |