MISS MARY E. LEE, a daughter of Mr. William Lee, and niece of the late Judge Thomas Lee, of Charleston, South Carolina, has been for many years a frequent contributor to the literary miscellanies, in both prose and verse. Among her best compositions are several poems, in the ballad style, found

ed on southern traditions, in which she has shown dramatic skill, and considerable ability in description. One of the best of these is the Indian's Revenge, a Legend of Toccoa, erary Messenger for 1846. Miss Lee is also in Four Parts, printed in the Southern Litthe author of some spirited translations.

THE POETS.

THE poets-the poets—
Those giants of the earth:
In mighty strength they tower above
The men of common birth ·

A noble race-they mingle not

Among the motley throng,

But move, with slow and measured steps,
To music-notes along.

The poets-the poets

What conquests they can boast!
Without one drop of life-blood spilt,

They rule a world's wide host;
Their stainless banner floats unharmed

From age to lengthened age;
And history records their deeds

Upon her proudest page.

The poets-the poets-
How endless is their fame!

Death, like a thin mist, comes, yet leaves
No shadow on each name;

But as yon starry gems that gleam
In evening's crystal sky,

So have they won, in memory's depths,
An immortality.

The poets-the poets-
Who doth not linger o'er
The glorious volumes that contain

Their bright and spotless lore?
They charm us in the saddest hours,
Our richest joys they feed;
And love for them has grown to be
A universal creed.

The poets-the poets-
Those kingly minstrels dead,
Well may we twine a votive wreath
Around each honored head:
No tribute is too high to give

Those crowned ones among men.
The poets! the true poets!

Thanks be to God for them!

AN EASTERN LOVE-SONG.

AWAKE, my silver lute; String all thy plaintive wires, And as the fountain gushes free, So let thy memory chant for me The theme that never tires.

Awake, my liquid voice; Like yonder timorous bird, Why dost thou sing in trembling fear, As if by some obtrusive ear Thy secret should be heard?

Awake, my heart-yet no! As Cedron's golden rill, Whose changeless echo singeth o'er Notes it had heard long years before, So thou art never still.

My voice! my lute! my heart!
Spring joyously above

The feeble notes of lower earth,
And let thy richest tones have birth
Beneath the touch of love.

THE LAST PLACE OF SLEEP.

LAY me not in green wood lone, Where the sad wind maketh moan, Where the sun hath never shone, Save as if in sadness; Nor, I pray thee, let me be Buried 'neath the chill, cold sea, Where the waves, tumultuous, free, Chafe themselves to madness. But in yon enclosure small, Near the churchyard's mossy wall, Where the dew and sunlight fall,

I would have my dwelling; Sure there are some friends, I wot, Who would make that narrow spot Lovely as a garden plot,

With rich perfumes swelling.

Let no costly stone be brought,
Where a stranger's hand hath wrought
Vain inscription, speaking naught
To the true affections;

But, above the quiet bed,
Where I rest my weary head,

Plant those buds whose perfumes shed
Tenderest recollections.

Then, as every year the tide
Of strong death bears to my side
Those who were by love allied—
As the flowers of summer-
Sweet to think, that from the mould
Of my body, long since cold.
Plants of beauty shall enfold
Every dear new comer.

MISS CATHERINE H. WATERMAN was born in Philadelphia, in 1812; and under her maiden name she became known as an author by

many graceful and tender effusions in the periodicals. In 1840 she was married to Mr. Esling, a shipmaster of her native city.

HE WAS OUR FATHER'S DARLING.

He was our father's darling,

A bright and happy boy-
His life was like a summer's day
Of innocence and joy;
His voice, like singing waters,
Fell softly on the ear,
So sweet, that hurrying echo
Might linger long to hear.
He was our mother's cherub,

Her life's untarnished light-
Her blessed joy by morning,

Her visioned hope by night:
His eyes were like the daybeams
That brighten all below;
His ringlets like the gathered gold
Of sunset's gorgeous glow.
He was our sister's plaything,
A very child of glee,

That frolicked on the parlor floor,
Scarce higher than our knee;
His joyous bursts of pleasure

Were wild as mountain wind;
His laugh, the free, unfettered laugh
Of childhood's chainless mind.
He was our brothers' treasure,
Their bosom's only pride-
A fair depending blossom

By their protecting side:

A thing to watch and cherish,

With varying hopes and fearsTo make the slender, trembling reed Their staff for future years.

He is a blessed angel,

His home is in the sky;

He shines among those living lights,
Beneath his Maker's eye:

A freshly gathered lily,

A bud of early doom,

Hath been transplanted from the earth,

To bloom beyond the tomb.