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 She only occasionally contributes to various journals, having written much that is unpublished. 66 دو "Polk" is not surpassed by the beautiful verses of H. L. Flash, which they resemble, on Zollicoffer; while in "Delilah' we can imagine standing before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 No braver blood than his that flow'd He left the soil he died to save, The cross the symbol of his faith All o'er the land a Lent of tears DELILAH. A Gentile girl, with jetty eyes, 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, She comes from ages far remote, A bright anathema she stands, For Gaza's giant was a child CHARLESTON. No willing captive wilt thou stand, But proud, defiant as thou art, Let foes still thunder at thy gate, Thy hand will grasp the sacred fire, Thou 'lt still be free. Thou art not despoiled; honor's left, Like Egypt's queen, The head that wears a regal crown Can ne'er to conqueror bow down, Where'er the dauntless and the free For a memorial be it told, Until the mountain-tops grow old, PRIZE POEM. JUDITH. Evening's first-born, the fair initial gem Of heaven. Cloud-circled on her car, she draws 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 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 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," Till heavy slumber still'd their babbling tongues. 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, |