MRS. MARY C. BIGBY.

MRS. BIGBY has written many very sweet poems; although, con

tributing only to the journals of her native State, she is not as widely known as many who cannot equal her poorest effort. Indeed, her cultivation of the Muses has been more as a recreation than otherwise.

is a native Geor

Mrs. Bigby her maiden name was Dougherty gian, and was educated in Georgia. At an early age she evinced an uncommon fondness for poetry, and wrote many verses that would have done credit to one of mature years. An incessant reader, she has gathered a rich and varied fund of information from books, upon which she can always draw with surpassing aptness and effect. In conversation she is fascinating and instructive.

She was married at an early age to John S. Bigby, Esq., of Newnan, Georgia, and is now the mother of three children, two sons and a daughter. She resides in Newnan, a pleasant town, particularly noted for its intellectual and literary characters.

She only occasionally contributes to various journals, having written much that is unpublished.

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"Polk" is not surpassed by the beautiful verses of H. L. Flash, which they resemble, on Zollicoffer; while in "Delilah' we can imagine standing before us the "Gentile girl with jetty eyes."

"Judith" was awarded a prize of two hundred and fifty dollars, offered by "Field and Fireside,” (Augusta, Georgia,) in 1864, for the best poem, over forty-nine competitors.

POLK.

No richer harvest Death hath reap'd
In all the Southern gleaning,

No braver blood than his that flow'd
With eucharistic meaning.

He left the soil he died to save,
Crimsoned with his gore,
To claim the sacerdotal crown
The martyr'd Stephen wore.

The cross the symbol of his faith
He bore with meek renown,
Till, budding like the Levite's rod,
It blossomed in a crown.

All o'er the land a Lent of tears
Shall Salem's daughters keep;
Her sons look on with stony eyes-
For Vengeance must not weep.

DELILAH.

A Gentile girl, with jetty eyes,
And hair of tropic gloom,
Gleaming with gems of Araby,
And sweet with its perfume:

Each rippling fold and sheeny wave

Plaited with studied grace;

A frame of ebon to enshrine

The picture of her face:

A warm, bright mouth aglow with love, A cheek where brown and red

In loving rivalry combine

To make the dimple's bed:

Arms rounded with a sculptor's art,
Hands supple, soft, and fair,
And other beauties half concealed,
Showing charms still more rare:

She comes from ages far remote,
A type of woman's power,
A fiend of hell, a form of light —
Beauty her only dower.

A bright anathema she stands,
Defiant in her charms;

For Gaza's giant was a child
Encircled in her arms.

CHARLESTON.

No willing captive wilt thou stand,
While tyrants manacle thy hands
With tripled steel;

But proud, defiant as thou art,
Though anguish rend thy very heart,
Thou 'lt scorn to kneel.

Let foes still thunder at thy gate,
Unblenched, thou 'lt calmly bide thy fate,
Whate'er it be :

Thy hand will grasp the sacred fire,
And on thy self-elected pyre,

Thou 'lt still be free.

Thou art not despoiled; honor's left,
Fair virgin city of the South ;

Like Egypt's queen,

The head that wears a regal crown

Can ne'er to conqueror bow down,
But dies a queen.

Where'er the dauntless and the free
Fight for their birthright- Liberty,
In distant lands,

For a memorial be it told,

Until the mountain-tops grow old,
How Charleston stands.

PRIZE POEM.

JUDITH.

Evening's first-born, the fair initial gem
Of starry thousands, trembles in the blue;
Its happy mission, lamping out the way
For all the wandering children of the sun,
Trooping to do obeisance to the queen

Of heaven. Cloud-circled on her car, she draws
The stream of stars along the vaulted floor,
Willing captives at her chariot wheels.

Earth, with its throbbing pulses stilled,
Is listening for the orisons of night,
And conning o'er the rosary of stars
Hung brightly on her bosom. Beautiful,
Mysterious night! The great symbolical
Apocalypse of Deity's own grandeur;
Perfect now, as when the creating voice
First called thee night. Earth groans with curses:
Her pristine beauty marr'd, the noxious dew
Of sin on every flower. The heavens,
Harmonious in their mighty sphere

As when the morning stars in concert sang,

Show but their Maker's hand. The poor worm, man,
With his weak, ephemeral hopes and joys,
Wraps around himself the scanty mantle

Of his selfish aims, a fig-leaf covering,

And walks beneath the thousand eyes of night,
Nor trembles at the voice that calls within;

Looks out upon the scene, beautiful

As heaven, solemn as a thought of hell,
And feels no awe at the familiar show.

Not in vain the lesson He has writ in
Cabalistic lines of gold. She who stood,
Alone, on Judea's storied hills,

Read in the emblazoned page what faith
Alone might see. High resolves, begotten
Of her country's bitter wrongs, grew steadfast
As the everlasting stars of heaven.

He who led that host, surely would not leave
Her to the blind uncertainties of chance.
In the instincts that now stirred her heart
She read His will, plainly as if engraved
With pen of iron on the solid rock.
In that dark medieval age, when man

Must needs be something of a 66 'law unto

Himself," the inner voice, that whispers now,

Spake loud and clear. And angels who had left
Their Eden homes to 'tend the fallen race,
Breathed in her ear words that to us would seem
An unknown, mystic tongue.

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,
To-morrow's eve should see them on the plain,
And burning cities, sacked and ruined towns,
And widow'd matrons, with their houseless babes,
Attest the vengeance of their steps. Alas!
How helpless Judea seem'd. Yesterday
She threw aside her chains; to-morrow's sun
Might see them riveted anew. Her doom
Was sealed unless her God should interpose.

The reeling sentinel had ceased his round,
And slept at last beside the smould'ring fire.
They too, in imitation of their chief,

With wassails "vex'd the drowsy ear of night,"

Till heavy slumber still'd their babbling tongues.
The lonely jackal's distant, plaintive cry,
The Jordan fretting o'er its rocky bed,

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,
Apparelled as he was, upon his couch.

A canopy of purple and of gold,