Bright forms of dream-like beauty round me glide;

In language wild awakes the sluggish mind; Sweet sounds that in celestial realms abide, Sweep by upon the unbound western wind.

Now burning thoughts, uprising, seem to swell
My tongue to utterance, like Sibyl old:
Alas! the faltering accents break the spell,

And leave their weird-like beauty all untold.

Why sweep these visions bright across my soul,
Evoking thence a wild Eolian strain?
Why do its yearnings vain spurn mind's control,
And thought's intensity bring thrilling pain?

Thy calm white petals to my gaze unfold,

And bid my heart to learn in silence meek; They say, "The beautiful sweet converse hold, To rouse the soul the beautiful to seek."

They bid me clothe my soul in spotless white,
With Mary, wisdom seek at Jesus' feet:
White robes alone are glorious in His sight,
The "pure in heart" for His dear presence meet.

And, gazing on thy glossy, deep dark green,
The Tree of Life before my vision glides,

And waters still, reflecting heaven's sheen,

And white-robed throng that on its shore abides.

The crimson passion-flower* my life has wound,
Its buds hang heavy with the dews of night:

My Father, let my dying brow be crowned

With Hope's bright buds, and Faith's large lilies white.

RESIGNATION.

Be patient, O my soul! yield not a sound
Of murmuring 'neath the chastening rod,
Although Hell's fiercest hosts encamp around:
Rest thou in fullest Hope and Strength in God;

*Emblem of suffering.

Though as the Son of Morning Satan lures,

Or with temptations fierce thy strength assays,—
Though Sorrow's cloud thy heavenly light obscures,
And Spirit-wrestlings mar thy glorious days,—
Be patient, for the joyous, glowing morn

In radiant beauty breaks o'er darkest night.
Lo! from thy darkness glorious Hope is born,
That gilds the floating clouds with glory bright:
From the dull worm, encased in silken shroud,
Is born triumphant beauty; and the germ
Within the shell deep-folded, tells aloud

Of life upspringing from the grave's cold urn.
As night brings forth the day; decay, bright life,—
So love is born of sorrow; joy, of pain;
And holiness, of suffering stern, and strife;
And purity, from fiercest furnace-flame.

Be patient, Soul! for Faith's full-moon will rise,
And o'er thy dark, long night its brightness pour,
And spirits' eyes as stars gleam from the skies:
But if thou faint, grief veils their beauty o'er.
Who perfumed isles would reach, or wealth would gain
From India's clime, the surging wave must stem;
The purest pearls lie deepest in the main,

And from dark mines is dug the glorious gem;
From mental strife is born that burning thought,

That sends through centuries its glowing light; The soul's fierce throes with richer boon are fraught, And blood-washed are those robes with glory bright. Be patient, then, for from the furnace-glow

And anvil-beating stroke spring Love and Might: Thou yet serenest peace and joy wilt know,

The palm victorious wave 'mid hosts of light.

MR

GERTRUDE A. CANFIELD.

RS. GERTRUDE AUGUSTA CANFIELD is a native of Vicksburg, Miss. She was born in 1836, and on the second marriage of her mother, removed with her to the Parish of Rapides, La., where she has since resided. In 1859 she married, and her husband, the gallant Major Canfield, was killed in leading a desperate charge at the battle of Mansfield, April 8th, 1864. No man in Rapides was more universally liked and respected than Major Canfield, and the tribute of honor to his memory was general and spontaneous throughout the parish where he had resided and practised his profession—the law.

Few among our war-stricken people have suffered more deeply than Mrs. Canfield. The loss of husband and children, the utter destruction of all her property, the necessity of providing for the wants of a helpless family, would have utterly overwhelmed a woman of less energy than herself. To this last circumstance (the struggle for support) is owing, in a great measure, the shortness and infrequency of her published writings. The few which have appeared in the "Louisiana Democrat" and New Orleans "Crescent" are marked by a sentiment and sensibility of a true poetic order. They convey the idea of culture, and a fancy which only scatters these slight lyrics from an abundance which will yet mature a work of more depth and pretension.

But it is from Mrs. Canfield's unpublished writings that her friends draw the clearest prestige of her future literary success.

A novel yet in manuscript (the publication having been delayed for a time) is marked by a force, a pathos, and a purity which must give her a high place among Southern writers. It is a tale which none but a woman could have written, from the insight it gives into a woman's heart and hidden springs of action; but it is also filled with characters and details masculine in their grasp of thought and treatment. When "My Cousin Anne" is published, we feel confident that the author will receive her reward, in part at least. We add purity as the crowning grace, for among the sensational and decollété writings of the present day, her mode of creation comes to us as a new revelation.

Mrs. Canfield's lyrics are, many of them, spirited and good. They do not appear to be the result of deep thought and careful combination, but spontaneous outbursts which seek rhythmical cadences as the natural music of the song. What she has done already is nothing but an imperfect interpretation of powers, to which we look for more sustained effort and fuller work.

CONFEDERATE GRAVES.

Pause, careless stranger-stop and turn aside;
The spot whereon thou standst is holy ground.
What though no monuments in sculptured pride
Mark where the many graves lie scattered round?

Yet pause, and bow thy head in reverence deep,
The place is sacred-here the mighty sleep.

The long dank grass waves rustling in the wind,
The sere leaves' russet mantle veils each mound,
And trailing weeds, and the wild-brier vine,
Have round each headboard leafy chaplets bound;
While the low breeze's moaning murmur makes
The only sound that the sad silence breaks.

On all those graves there's not a single line

To tell fond friends - "Here the loved dust reposes;"
In vain Affection seeks that spot to find,

Where trembling hands should strew memorial roses :
On all alike the long grass rustling waves,
All look alike, those crowded, nameless graves.

Here rest the heroes of a hundred fields,
Martyrs to Liberty's most sacred cause;
Patriots who deemed it privilege to yield
Their dearest life-blood for their land and laws.
Our dead! they sleep in this neglected spot,
As though the land they died for loved them not.

But 'tis not so;-shrined in our hearts they lie,
Holiest of holies! - and their memories green,
Deep hidden in our breasts from every eye,
Immortelles of the soul, shall bloom unseen.
Here rest our dead

our precious hero-band,

In the fond hearts of their own native land.

Nor here alone,- the wide earth owns their fame;
In storied climes far o'er the distant sea,
Where'er is cherished Liberty's dear name,

Shall they, her peerless champions, honored be.

There rest our dead, embalmed in song and story,
And every name wreathed round with deathless glory.

No tyrant's fiat can that record tear,

No rude hand cast those sacred tablets down;
Our foes, triumphant though they be, must bear
To hear the pæans of that loud renown-

That sweeps in sounding surge o'er land and wave,
And sighs its dirge o'er each Confederate grave.

My womanhood was calmly cold;

The flame that had so fiercely burned

Was quench'd, and from its fiery fold

My heart shrank quivering, tortured, spurned;