Of colored lamps, upon whose bosom weighs
A dreary vision; and there, too, the sweet,
Sun-worshipp'd South, in languid beauty stays,
Like a Sultana, caring but to meet

Her fiery lover 'mid her gorgeous bowers,
And, as his bride, be crown'd with orange flowers.

"And over all there moves

The phantasm of my life. With joy and dread
I see it passing, and my memory proves
Its truth to nature. Roses white and red,
Whose leaves into the winds have long been shed,
And tremulous lily-bells and jasmine blooms
Are there, as they had risen from the dead;

So like their early selves, their lost perfumes
Seem blown about them, and I hear the breeze,
That used to kiss them, sing old melodies.

"Above, the changing sky

Shows wonder-pictures to my fading eyes:

Now the black armies of the clouds march by; Now rainbows bloom; now golden moons arise. Below, how varied too: now glitter lies

On gorgeous jewels, bridal-flowers, and mirth; Now mourners pass, and fill the air with sighs, To hide their coffins in the yawning earth; Now, with a pallid face and frenzied mind, Cold, starving wretches ask if God is blind.

"Now reels a nightmare throne

From the crush'd bosom of the Sicilies;

The South's brief dream of blood wakes in the sun; Glad winds sing on the blue Italian seas,

And glad men bless me by their olive-trees;
Now, in the clouds above a younger land,

With awful eyes fix'd on its destinies,

The frowning souls of its dead glorious stand,
And see a fiery madness, that would blast
God's miracle of freedom, kindling fast."

He fix'd a dark, wild look :

On his celestial watcher, as in hate;

Then grasp'd him, till his passionless grandeur shook, And muttered, "Spirit, see the fate of fate

I've left upon mortality's estate.

And thou didst suffer all this ruin, thou Whose office was to warn me; 'tis too late

For me to give thee these reproaches now, For I am growing cold- my deeds are done, And thou shouldst blush for them, thou guilty one.

"I tell thee, thou shalt hear;

For, Guardian Angel of the years, I swear

Thou art a traitor to thy God. And fear A traitor's fate, if thou again shall dare Neglect thy task. Then aid him who shall bear The sceptre I resign-to quench all wrong, And kindle right—or, when I meet thee where None may evade the truth, my oath, as strong As aught, except thy brother Lucifer's curse, Shall drag thee down to share his doom, or worse!

"Mortals, I go, I go.

Yet, though we part, it is to meet again;

My ghost will come with noiseless step, and slow, Along the twilights, whispering of my reign;

And, in the night-times, oft a mystic strain

Shall strike your sleep, and ye shall know my tone, Singing remembered airs, not all in vain,

And chorus them with an unconscious moan;

And I must witness of you in the day

When earth and heaven shall melt, in fire, away."

He drew the dark around

His ghastly face-the nations sigh'd farewell;
He stagger'd from his throne-an awful sound
Rolled down from every system's, every bell,
That toll'd together once to make his knell;
And the resplendent crown-star, that had flash'd
On the lone angel's brow, grew black, and fell
Shattering among six thousand more it crash'd.
I asked, "How many stay for him to wear?"
I woke, and midnight's silence filled the air.

THE

MRS. JANE T. H. CROSS.

HE childhood of Jane Tandy Chinn was passed in or near Harroldsburg, Kentucky, where she was born in 1817. She was educated in Shelbyville, Kentucky, at a school of which Mrs. Tevis was principal.

In our sketch of this true, noble-hearted woman, we do not profess to give a complete portrait, for "words" can illy express to strangers what Mrs. Cross is to those who know her and love her. We only desire to present a sketch of the "literary" life and works of this "writer," whose claims as an author are surpassed by her private virtues.

At an early age she was married to James P. Hardin, of Kentucky. In 1842 he died, and Mrs. Hardin, at the age of twenty-five, was left a widow with three children. In 1848 she was married a second time, to Rev. Dr. Cross, of the Methodist Church.

To the request for "A sketch of her literary life," Mrs. Cross thus responds in her graceful and cheerful style :

"A sketch of my literary life!' That fairly puts my modesty to the blush. I am ready to exclaim with the knife-grinder, 'Story? la, bless you! I have none to tell.' And yet your request has awakened a curious question in my own mind: when did I first learn to love letters, books, the creations of the imagination? I rather think it was in listening, when a child, to the stories of 'Cinderella,' 'Little Red Ridinghood,' 'Beauty and the Beast.' These were followed by the sentimental sorrows of 'The Children of the Abbey,' and the delightful horrors of Mrs. Radcliff. Walking through these shadows, I came to the great living forest of Sir Walter Scott, where the pure air and the sunshine brought me better health; where the trees, and birds, and gurgling water were real things; where men and women walked, and talked, and acted, and felt. In the meantime it is not to be supposed that I did not occasionally indulge in stanzas from Byron, and feel, at sixteen, that 'I had not loved the world, nor the world me.' Oh, certainly ! and was not 'Lalla Rookh' charming too, in those days? Then came the gentle Mrs. Hemans, whom I read to satiety; and Mrs. Sherwood, and Hannab More, and Miss Edgeworth, and Mrs. Opie, Bulwer, James, Dickens — plays, sermons, epic poems, philosophical treatises, history- anything that a girl

could lay her hands upon in a country village. When but a little child I had a great fancy for writing rhymes, which I called poetry; and when the exciting times of a Kentucky election would come on, I would sometimes give vent to my enthusiasm for some favorite candidate by a most declamatory handbill, written on a half-sheet of foolscap, to be read by the members of our own family. The thought of writing a novel would sometimes cross my girlish mind, but in a very indefinite, far-off way, as I might now contemplate undertaking a railroad or a bridge across the Mississippi."

With the exception of an occasional New Year's Address, a little story, or something of that kind, Mrs. Cross wrote nothing for publication until about the year 1851, when she commenced writing for a Sunday-school paper, edited by Dr. Summers, in Charleston, S. C. For that journal she wrote "Heart-Blossoms," "Bible-Gleanings," "Way-Side Flowerets," "Drift-Wood." These were afterwards published in book-form, by Dr. Summers, and make four Sunday-school volumes.

While in Europe, some ten years ago, she published a series of letters under the title of "Reflected Fragments," in the Nashville Southern Advocate, and in the Charleston Courier.

Since her marriage to Rev. Dr. Cross, her life has been a roving one from South Carolina to Texas; yet her home is in the State where she first saw the light. She is, essentially, a Kentuckian.

A friend thus alludes to the "home" style of the lady author under consideration: "In the writings of Mrs. Cross I find peculiar delight; her calm eyes seem to be looking into mine telling me every word, and I listen completely captivated. Ah! around her name cluster many sweet memories!"

As a translator, Mrs. Cross ranks high with Mrs. Coleman, of her own State, and Mrs. Chaudron of Alabama, and Mrs. M. B. Williams of Louisiana. Her translation from the Spanish of Florian's thrilling romance of "The Conquest of Granada," alone should give her preeminent rank as a writer of talent and genius.

The latest published volume of Mrs. Cross, in part an Art story, was published in Nashville, 1868, entitled, "Azile."

A "Southland writer," well known as one of the most clever and clear-sighted reviewers we have, in alluding to this volume, says in a friendly letter: "I have read Azile.' The book strikes me as very unequal. It evinces talent, but a want of method. Taken in detail, there is much to praise. Her views on the Incomprehensibility

of Woman to Man, are admirably well depicted; her description of the Chocolate Girl is graphic, and the Funeral of the Young Musician very touching and tender. But, as a whole, I think the work fails in its design and effects. There is no magnetism in the story, no force in the delineation of characters; they are all automatic, and the scenes mere sketches that pass the eye, but leave no impression, no sense of their reality; it is a mere mirage that vanishes away with the shifting sunlight."

Says Dr. Blackie, a most accomplished critic:

"Mrs. Cross has been for some time favorably known to the Southern people as a gifted and charming magazine writer. She has now attempted a more ambitious work, and has been successful in presenting us with a very sweet and thoughtful tale, containing many passages of exquisite picturewriting and criticisms on literature and art of a very high order. The story is a slight but entertaining one. The charm of the work consists in those gems of thought, careful descriptions, and sparkling pearls of criticism on art which abound in its pages. It is the work of genius, the careful, elaborated product of an educated head, an observing eye, an acute judgment, and a warm, womanly heart. We are proud to have an artist so true and author so accomplished, to rank among our countrywomen."

And the following is taken from an article prepared by the editor of the "Home Monthly," Prof. A. B. Stark:

"To those who know Mrs. Cross, it is useless to say that her book is free from improprieties and vices, but is pure, elevated, ennobling. It contains the mature thoughts of a pure, cultivated, Christian woman. The story is quiet, straightforward, and grows in interest to the close. The scene in the first part is laid in Dresden. This gives the authoress an opportunity to use her rich stores of information gathered in her travels in Europe. There is some fine art-criticism. There is a vast deal of information about the customs and habits of the German people, their amusements, and their recreations. We are introduced into the private circle of a German family, and see how they live. Afterward, the scene is transferred to the Southern States, at the beginning of the war, and ends with the first battle of ManasThis affords occasion for showing the feelings and thoughts of a true Southern woman on the Union, Secession, and War. In this picture, she is wonderfully true in her conception of that time of revulsions, upheaval, and enthusiasm.

sas.

"It is a book of interest and value. It deserves a generous reception by Southern readers.

"The style is smooth, clear, and lively. Mrs. Cross knows Jean Paul, and is, of course, an enthusiastic admirer of him."