Earth, with its throbbing pulses stilled, As when the morning stars in concert sang, Show but their Maker's hand. The poor worm, man, Of his selfish aims, a fig-leaf covering, And walks beneath the thousand eyes of night, Looks out upon the scene, beautiful As heaven, solemn as a thought of hell, Not in vain the lesson He has writ in Read in the emblazoned page what faith He who led that host, surely would not leave Their Eden homes to 'tend the fallen race, Breathed in her ear words that to us would seem Of righteous wrath, No self-elected instrument was she. Predestinated for this hour, she stood Obedient to the ordained will, Accomplishing in one eventful deed The purpose of her being. And she felt That He who willed the act would bless the means. God was o'erhead, and at her feet the camps. Like snowy doves that settle in a flock, The white tents stood upon the sacred hills, A host in number like the stars above. To-night, they boasted when they drove their stakes, The reeling sentinel had ceased his round, With wassails "vex'd the drowsy ear of night," In haste to reach the bosom of the sea, Were sounds the oleander-scented breeze Brought from the plains below. The goatherd's cry, The shepherd's evening song from far-off hills, Mingled with the night-bird's boding voice. Nearer was heard the tethered camels' Awkward tread. Loosed from their cumbrous load, They stalked like spectral shadows on the hill, Cropping the scanty herbage. A censer Held by a silver bracket, burned with spice And pungent aromatic sandal-wood Before the Assyrian's tent. A lamp Lit within, shone o'er a sleeping soldier. Fresh from the banquet, he had thrown himself, A canopy of purple and of gold, Wrought with barbaric gems, hung o'er his head. Heavy potations of generous wine Had surfeited this sensuous being, And Holofernes slept:-slept but to dream And sweeter draughts than ever vintage gave, His waking passions made. A mutter'd oath, A woman's hand Parted the crimson curtains from the door, Style, like Sarah had, when it tempted God's As the queen whose conquering beauty made Was traced, and then it faded as it came." As vessels that the priests have once blessed, Though made of common clay, become henceforth So the baptism of her mission fell Upon the heart and brain, transfiguring Her whole being. If it is truly said, "We live in deeds, not years, in thoughts, not breaths,” Then we have erred in calling Judith young. We looked but on the strangely dazzling face, The full, voluptuous, and perfect form, And not upon the spirit caged within. A Woman's hand had brought the priceless gift. Sing on, O Stars! your everlasting song, Shall pale in morning's gray, Judith shall raise And Deborah echoed 'neath the spreading palms: ANNIE R. BLOUNT. ISS BLOUNT is a native of Richmond County, Va. She commenced writing for her own pleasure and amusement at an early age, and many of her juvenile productions appeared in print under various signatures. She graduated at Madison Female College, Madison, Ga., with the very highest honors the institution could confer; the president stating to the trustees and audience that she was the most perfect scholar he had ever graduated. After her graduation, although very young, Miss Blount, at the earnest persuasion of teachers, friends, etc., assumed the editorial conduct of a literary paper, which, under her auspices, rapidly grew into public favor, and was widely circulated. Miss Blount, besides being literary editress of the "Bainbridge Argus," (which position she held for two years,) contributed to other Southern literary journals. She received a prize offered by a literary paper published in Newbern, N. C., for "the best story by any American writer." Mr. T. A. Burke, then editor of the "Savannah News," thus alluded to her success: 'An examining committee, composed of W. Gilmore Simms, the eminent novelist, Rev. B. Craven, President of the Normal College, N. C., and John R. Thompson, editor of the 'Southern Literary Messenger,' have awarded the first prize, a one-hundred-dollar gold medal, to 'Jenny Woodbine,' alias Miss Annie R. Blount, of Augusta, Ga., 'for the best story,' to be published in a Southern paper. We know Miss Blount well, and her success as a writer, both of prose and verse, is what her decided talent induced us to expect. She is young-probably the youngest writer of any reputation in the country, North or South — and, with proper study and care, she has much to expect in the future." This story, "The Sisters," was printed in 1859, in the "Newbern Gazette." Miss Blount has received numerous prizes for poems and novelettes, offered by various papers. In the summer of -, she was invited by the trustees and faculty of Le Vert College, Talbotton, Ga., |