STANZAS.

Addressed to my daughter while she slept.

REST, my babe, in peace and beauty,
On thy anxious mother's breast,
Careful love, maternål duty

Watch thee, precious, in thy rest.

Rest, while infancy sheds o'er thee,
Passionless, its purity

Blinded to the fate before thee,-
Free from guile, from sorrow free.

Rest, ere childhood's playful season
Scatters thorns with roses gay,
Thorns to spurn the waking reason,
Roses fading in a day;

When a fleeting cloud, young sorrow
Passes o'er thine open brow,
Warning of a changeful morrow,—
Rest unconscious, sweet one, now.

Rest, ere girlhood's giddy hours
Bind thee, pleasure's votary,
In a wreath of weeds and flowers,
Strown at random o'er thy way.

Rest, ere yet the maiden's blushes
Deepen o'er thy lily cheek,
When the crimson torrent rushes,

Voiceless, tho' 't will volumes speak.

Ere the thoughts, the vivid fancies,
Waking thou would'st not reveal,
On thy sleeping face, (like glances

From the soul,) shall brightly steal.

Rest, while Infancy has bound thee
In a circle free from pain;
Rest, ere womanhood casts round thee
Sorrows, woman must sustain.

THE WIFE.

"She flung her white arms around him-Thou art all That this poor heart can cling to."

I COULD have stemmed misfortune's tide,
And borne the rich one's sneer,
Have braved the haughty glance of pride,
Nor shed a single tear.

I could have smiled on every blow
From Life's full quiver thrown,
While I might gaze on thee, and know
I should not be "alone."

I could-- I think I could have brooked,
E'en for a time, that thou

Upon my fading face hadst looked

With less of love than now;
For then I should at least have felt
The sweet hope still my own,
To win thee back, and, whilst I dwelt
On earth, not been "alone."

But thus to see, from day to day,

Thy brightening eye and cheek,
And watch thy life-sands waste away,
Unnumbered, slowly, meek;

To meet thy smiles of tenderness,

And catch the feeble tone

Of kindness, ever breathed to bless,
And feel, I'll be "alone;"

--

To mark thy strength each hour decay,
And yet thy hopes grow stronger,
As, filled with heaven-ward trust, they say,
"Earth may not claim thee longer;
Nay, dearest, 'tis too much -- this heart
Must break, when thou art gone;

It must not be; we may not part;

I could not live" alone!"

ᎢᎻᎬ ᎻᎬᎪᎡᎢ,

I lingered in the Halls of Imagination. Her sceptre had fallen from her grasp. I turned to the realm of the Heart. Its power had increased with years."

THERE was a time when Fancy uninvoked,

Cast her light spells where'er my spirit roved,
Each passing scene anew her smiles provoked,
And all seemed lovely, — for each one was loved,

But now I gaze, unheeding most I see

Of wild or fair, in Nature's boundless hoard;

A change is over all -a change in me

As Lethe's streams o'er Fancy's source were poured.

This change I mourn, and seek again the dreams

Which brightened, soothed, and gladdened life of yore; But shaded groves, fresh flowers, and purling streams, Exert their influence o'er my mind no more.

No more I dream—for Fancy has grown old
And Thought is busied now with sterner things,
E'en Feeling's self—yet, no! I am not cold;
But feeling now round other objects clings.

There are in life, realities as dear,

Nay, dearer far than Fancy can create,
Though Taste may vary - beauty disappear,
That linger still, defying Time and Fate.

The flush of Youth soon passes from the face,
The spells of Fancy from the mind depart,
The form may lose its symmetry and grace,·
But Time can claim no victory o'er the Heart.

SARAH HELEN WHITMAN.

MRS. WHITMAN is a native of Providence, Rhode-Island. Her maiden name was Power. Her father died when she was a child; her mother being thus left to the solitariness of a widow's lot, devoted herself with unwearied care to the education of her daughter.

The health of Miss Power was constitutionally delicate, while her mental faculties developed with that quickness and brilliancy which surely indicates the predominancy of imagination. Poetry was the favorite literature of her youthful studies, and she soon manifested the propensity, which the Muse will foster in those she elects her votaries, to "write in rhyme."

In 1828, Miss Power was married to John W. Whitman, a young lawyer, son of Judge Whitman, of Boston. The marriage was one of affection, induced by the congeniality of poetical and literary tastes --but the union was in a few years dissolved by the death of Mr. Whitman. Mrs. Whitman then returned to her mother's arms, and her early home at Providence, where she now resides.

Her poetry has appeared in the periodicals and annuals over the signature "Helen," and always excited attention by its richness of imagery and sweet, melodious versification. She has an uncommonly retentive memory, and elaborates her poems in a rather peculiar manner; arranging,