There, beings pure as heaven's own air, There cloudless days and brilliant nights, Thou little sparkling Star of Even- FEATS OF DEATH. I HAVE passed o'er the earth in the darkness of night, ing, And I've left the fond mother in sorrow and weeping. My pinion was spread, and the cold dew of night I paused o'er the valley, the glad sounds of joy 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, I passed, and the harp of the bard was unstrung; O'er the stream which rolled deeply, 't was 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, And darkness fills the arch of heaven, When not a murmur, not a sound To Fancy's sportive ear is given; When the broad orb of heaven is bright, When Nature, softened by her light, Then, when our thoughts are raised above The song which thrills my bosom's core, "T were almost sacrilege to sing When sleeping in my grass-grown bed, · FRAGMENT.* THERE is a something which I dread, It is a dark, a fearful thing; It steals along with withering tread, Or sweeps on wild destruction's wing. That thought comes o'er me in the hour *These lines are the last she ever wrote; they were left thus unfinished. "T is not the dread of death-'t is more, It is the dread of madness! Oh! may these throbbing pulses pause, FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. OSGO 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. 66 "The din of the city disturbed 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 |