LAVINIA STODDARD.

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HANNAH F. GOULD.

MISS GOULD is a native of Lancaster, in the southern part of Vermont. Her father was one of the small company who fought in the first battle of the Revolution, and in the face of all the privations and discouragements of that long and often hopeless war remained in the army until it was disbanded. In The Sear of Lexington, The Revolutionary Soldier's Request, The Veteran and the Child, and several other pieces, we suppose she has referred to him; and it is probably but a versification of a family incident in which an old man, relating the story of his weary campaigns, says to a child— "I carried my musket, as one that must be But loosed from the hold of the dead, or the free. And fearless I lifted my good, trusty sword, In the hand of a mortal, the strength of the Lord." Miss Gould's history is in a peculiar degree and in a most honorable manner identified with her father's. In her youth he removed to Newburyport, near Boston, and for many years before his death, (for the touching poem entitled My Lost Father, in the last volume of her writings, we presume had reference to that event,) she was his housekeeper, his constant companion, and the chief source of his happiness.

Miss Gould's poems are short, but they are frequently nearly perfect in their kind. Nearly all of them appeared originally in annuals, magazines, and other miscellanies, and their popularity has been shown by the

| subsequent sale of several collective editions. The first volume she published came out in 1832, the second in 1835, and the third in 1841; and a new edition, embracing many new poems, is now (1848) in preparation. Her most distinguishing characteristic is sprightliness.

Her poetical vein seldom rises above the fanciful, but in her vivacity there is both wit and cheerfulness. She needs apparently but the provocation of a wider social inspiration to become very clever and apt in jeux d'esprit and epigrams, as a few specimens which have found their way into the journals amply indicate. It is however in such pieces as Jack Frost, The Pebble and the Acorn, and other effusions devoted to graceful details of nature, or suggestive incidents in life, that we recognise the graceful play of her muse. Often by a dainty touch, or lively prelude, the gentle raillery of her sex most charmingly reveals itself, and in this respect Miss Gould manifests a decided individuality of genius.

Miss Gould seems as fond as Esop or La Fontaine of investing every thing in nature with a human intelligence. It is surprising to see how frequently and how happily the birds, the insects, the trees and flowers and pebbles are made her colloquists. Her poems could be illustrated only by some such ingenious artists as those who have recently amused Paris with Scenes de la Vie Publique et Privée des Animaux.

A NAME IN THE SAND.

ALONE I walked the ocean strand;
A pearly shell was in my hand:
I stooped and wrote upon the sand
My name-the year-the day.
As onward from the spot I passed,
One lingering look behind I cast:
A wave came rolling high and fast,

And washed my lines away.
And so, methought, 't will shortly be
With every mark on earth from me:
A wave of dark Oblivion's sea

Will sweep across the place
Where I have trod the sandy shore
Of Time, and been to be no more,
Of me my day-the name I bore,
To leave nor track nor trace.

And yet, with Him who counts the sands,
And holds the waters in his hands,
I know a lasting record stands,
Inscribed against my name,

Of all this mortal part has wrought,
Of all this thinking soul has thought,
And from these fleeting moments caught
For glory or for shame.

HANNAH F. GOULD.

CHANGES ON THE DEEP.

A GALLANT ship! and trim and tight
Across the deep she speeds away,
While mantled with the golden light
The sun throws back at close of day.
And who, that sees that stately ship
Her haughty stem in ocean dip,
Has ever seen a prouder one
Illumined by a setting sun?

The breath of summer, sweet and soft,
Her canvass swells, while, wide and fair,
And floating from her mast aloft,

Her flag plays off on gentle air.
And, as her steady prow divides
The waters to her even sides,
She passes, like a bird, between
The peaceful deep and sky serene.
And now gray twilight's tender veil

The moon with shafts of silver rends;
And down on billow, deck, and sail,

Her placid lustre gently sends.
The stars, as if the arch of blue
Were pierced to let the glory through,
From their bright world look out and win
The thoughts of man to enter in.

And many a heart that's warm and true
That noble ship bears on with pride;
While, mid the many forms, are two
Of passing beauty, side by side.

A fair young mother, standing by
Her bosom's lord, has fixed her eye,
With his, upon the blessed star
That points them to their home afar.
Their thoughts fly forth to those, who there

Are waiting now, with joy to hail
The moment that shall grant their prayer,

And heave in sight their coming sail.
For, many a time the changeful queen
Of night has vanished, and been seen,
Since, o'er a foreign shore to roam,
They passed from that dear, native home.
The babe, that on its father's breast

Has let its little eyelids close,
The mother bears below to rest,

And sinks with it in sweet repose.

The while a sailor climbs the shroud,
And in the distance spies a cloud:
Low, like a swelling seed, it lies,
From which the towering storm shall rise.
The powers of air are now about

To muster from their hidden caves;
The winds, unchained, come rushing out,
And into mountains heap the waves.
Upon the sky the darkness spreads!
The Tempest on the Ocean treads;
And yawning caverns are its track
Amid the waters wild and black.

Its voice-but who shall give the sounds
Of that dread voice ?-The ship is dashed
In roaring depths-and now she bounds
On high, by foaming surges lashed.

And how is she the storm to bide?
Its sweeping wings are strong and wide!
The hand of man has lost control
O'er her-his work is for the soul!

She's in a scene of Nature's war:
The winds and waters are at strife;
And both with her contending for

The brittle thread of human life
That she contains; while sail and shroud
Have yielded, and her head is bowed.
Then who that slender thread shall keep
But He whose finger moves the deep?

A moment-and the angry blast

Has done its work and hurried on.
With parted cables, shivered mast—
With riven sides, and anchor gone,
Behold the ship in ruin lie;

While from the waves a piercing cry
Surmounts the tumult high and wild,

And shouts to heaven, "My child! my child!"
The mother in the whelming surge

Lifts up her infant o'er the sea,
While lying on the awful verge

Where time unveils eternity-
And calls to Mercy, from the skies
To come and rescue, while she dies,
The gift that, with her fleeting breath,
She offers from the gates of death.
It is a call for Heaven to hear.

Maternal fondness sends above
A voice, that in her Father's ear

Shall enter quick, for God is love.
In such a moment, hands like these
Their Maker with their offering sees;
And for the faith of such a breast
He will the blow of death arrest!

The moon looks pale from out the cloud,
While Mercy's angel takes the form
Of him, who, mounted on the shroud,
Was first to see the coming storm.
The sailor has a ready arm
To bring relief, and cope with harm;
Though rough his hand, and nerved with steel,

His heart is warm and quick to feel.

And see him, as he braves the frown
That sky and sea each other give!
Behold him where he plunges down,

That child and mother yet may live,
And plucks them from a closing grave!
They're saved! they're saved! the maddened

wave

Leaps foaming up, to find its prey

Snatched from its mouth and borne away.

They're saved! they're saved! but where is he,
Who lulled his fearless babe to sleep!
A floating plank on that wild sea

Has now his vital spark to keep!
But, by the wan, affrighted moon,
Help comes to him; and he is soon
Upon the deck with living men
To clasp that smiling boy again.

WITH cherub smile, the prattling boy,
Who on the veteran's breast reclines,
Has thrown aside his favorite toy,

And round his tender finger twines
Those scattered locks, that, with the flight
Of fourscore years, are snowy white;
And, as a scar arrests his view,
He cries, "Grandpa, what wounded you?"

"My child, 'tis five-and-fifty years
This very day, this very hour,
Since, from a scene of blood and tears,

Where valor fell by hostile power,
I saw retire the setting sun
Behind the hills of Lexington;
While pale and lifeless on the plain
My brothers lay, for freedom slain!

"And ere that fight, the first that spoke
In thunder to our land, was o'er,
Amid the clouds of fire and smoke,
I felt my garments wet with gore!
Tis since that dread and wild affray,
That trying, dark, eventful day,
From this calm April eve so far,
I wear upon my cheek the scar.

"When thou to manhood shalt be grown,
And I am gone in dust to sleep,
May freedom's rights be still thine own,
And thou and thine in quiet reap
The unblighted product of the toil
In which my blood bedewed the soil!
And, while those fruits thou shalt enjoy,
Bethink thee of this scar, my boy.

"But, should thy country's voice be heard

To bid her children fly to arms,
Gird on thy grandsire's trusty sword:
And, undismayed by war's alarms,
Remember, on the battle field,
I made the hand of GoD my shield:
And be thou spared, like me, to tell
What bore thee up, while others fell!"

THE SNOWFLAKE.

"Now, if I fall, will it be my lot

To be cast in some lone and lowly spot,
To melt, and to sink unseen, or forgot?
And there will my course be ended?"
"Twas this a feathery Snowflake said,
As down through measureless space it strayed,
Or as, half by dalliance, half afraid,

It seemed in mid air suspended.

"Oh, no!" said the Earth, "thou shalt not lie
Neglected and lone on my lap to die,
Thou pure and delicate child of the sky!

For thou wilt be safe in my keeping.
But, then, I must give thee a lovelier form—
Thou wilt not be a part of the wintry storm,
But revive, when the sunbeams are yellow and

warm,

And the flowers from my bosom are peeping!

"And then thou shalt have thy choice, to be
Restored in the lily that decks the lea,
In the jessamine bloom, the anemone,

Or aught of thy spotless whiteness;
To melt, and be cast in a glittering bead
With the pearls that the night scatters over the

mead,

In the cup where the bee and the firefly feed,
Regaining thy dazzling brightness.

"I'll let thee awake from thy transient sleep,
When Viola's mild blue eye shall weep,
In a tremulous tear; or, a diamond, leap

In a drop from the unlocked fountain;
Or, leaving the valley, the meadow, and heath,
The streamlet, the flowers, and all beneath,
Go up and be wove in the silvery wreath
Encircling the brow of the mountain.

"Or wouldst thou return to a home in the skies,
To shine in the Iris I'll let thee arise,
And appear in the many and glorious dyes

A pencil of sunbeams is blending!
But true, fair thing, as my name is Earth,
I'll give thee a new and vernal birth,
When thou shalt recover thy primal worth,
And never regret descending!"

"Then I will drop," said the trusting Flake,
But, bear it in mind, that the choice I make
Is not in the flowers nor the dew to wake;

Nor the mist, that shall pass with the morning For, things of thyself, they will die with thee; But those that are lent from on high, like me, Must rise, and will live, from thy dust set free, To the regions above returning.

"And if true to thy word and just thou art,
Like the spirit that dwells in the holiest heart,
Unsullied by thee, thou wilt let me depart,

And return to my native heaven.
For I would be placed in the beautiful bow,
From time to time, in thy sight to glow;
So thou mayst remember the Flake of Snow
By the promise that God hath given!"

THE WINDS.

HANNAH F. GOULD.

WE come! we come! and ye feel our might,
As we're hastening on in our boundless flight,
And over the mountains and over the deep
Our broad, invisible pinions sweep,
Like the spirit of Liberty, wild and free!
And ye look on our works, and own 'tis we;
Ye call us the Winds: but can ye tell
Whither we go, or where we dwell?

Ye mark, as we vary our forms of power,
And fell the forests, or fan the flower,
When the harebell moves, and the rush is bent,
When the tower's o'erthrown, and the oak is rent,
As we waft the bark o'er the slumbering wave,
Or hurry its crew to a watery grave;
And ye say it is we!-but can ye trace
The wandering winds to their secret place?

And, whether our breath be loud or high,
Or come in a soft and balmy sigh,
Our threatenings fill the soul with fear,
Or our gentle whisperings woo the ear
With music aerial, still 'tis we.

And ye list and ye look; but what do ye see?
Can ye hush one sound of our voice to peace,
Or waken one note when our numbers cease?

Our dwelling is in the Almighty's hand;
We come and we go at his command.
Though joy or sorrow may mark our track,
His will is our guide, and we look not back:
And if, in our wrath ye would turn us away,
Or win us in gentle airs to play,

Then lift up your hearts to Him who binds
Or frees, as he will, the obedient winds.

THE FROST.

THE Frost looked forth one still, clear night,
And whispered, "Now I shall be out of sight:
So, through the valley, and over the height,
In silence I'll take my way.

I will not go on like that blustering train-
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain-
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain;
But I'll be as busy as they."

Then he flew to the mountain and powder'd its crest;
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he drest
In diamond beads; and over the breast

Of the quivering lake he spread

A coat of mail, that it need not fear
The downward point of many a spear
That he hung on its margin, far and near,

Where a rock could rear its head.

He went to the windows of those who slept,
And over each pane, like a fairy, crept;
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stept,

By the list of the morn, were seen
Most beaut u. things: there were flowers and trees;
There were bevies of birds, and swarms of bees;
There were cities, with temples and towers-and
All pictured in silver sheen!

[these

YE mighty waters, that have joined your forces,
Roaring and dashing with this awful sound,
Here are ye mingled; but the distant sources
Whence ye have issued-where shall they be
found?

Who may retrace the ways that ye have taken,
Ye streams and drops? who separate you all,
And find the many places ye've forsaken,

To come and rush together down the fall? Through thousand, thousand paths have ye been roaming,

In earth and air, who now each other urge
To the last point! and then, so madly foaming,

Leap down at once from this stupendous verge.
Some in the lowering cloud a while were centred,
That in the stream beheld its sable face,
And melted into tears, that, falling, entered
With sister waters on this sudden race.
Others, to light that beamed upon the fountain,
Have from the vitals of the rock been freed,
In silver threads, that, shining down the mountain,
Twined off among the verdure of the mead.
And many a flower that bowed beside the river,
In opening beauty, ere the dew was dried,
Stirred by the breeze, has been an early giver

Of her pure offering to the rolling tide.
Thus, from the veins, through earth's dark bosom
pouring,

Many have flowed in tributary streams; Some, in the bow that bent, the sun adoring,

Have shone in colors borrowed from his beams.
But He, who holds the ocean in the hollow

Of his strong hand, can separate you all!
His searching eye the secret way will follow
Of every drop that hurries to the fall!
We
are, like
you, in mighty torrents mingled,
And speeding downward to one common home;
Yet there's an Eye that every drop hath singled,
And marked the winding ways through which