A

MISS ALLIE TORBETT.

MONG our young writers, there is none more worthy of mention than Miss Allie Torbett, a young girl of seventeen, whose contributions to the Press, though few in number, display so marked an ability as to promise for her a very brilliant future.

Miss Torbett was born in Shelbyville, Ky., and losing both parents during her early childhood, was adopted by her mother's sister, Mrs. Vassie R, who, being a lady of wealth, refinement, and very decided literary tastes, devoted herself assiduously to the intellectual culture of her niece, whose active mind and keen thirst for knowledge amply repaid the care expended upon her.

There is in her writings a similarity to the earlier productions of Mrs. Browning. The same cast of mind is perceptible in both; though experience and severe study, added to the peculiar circumstances of her life, developed Mrs. Browning to an extent that could never have been reached by any unassisted genius.

Miss Torbett's "Parthenope" is among her best poems. It has been widely copied, and received unqualified commendation.

PARTHENOPE.

She moaned within her sea-grot cool and deep,
And louder moaned the tortured sea without;
The angry wind, with strong arms, beat the waves,
That, frightened, rushed for refuge to the shore.
They foam with rage; they howl with fear and pain;
And thro' the din the whirlpool's voice is heard,
Altisonant and wild, alike a voice

Of Tartarus that haunts a sea of fire.

Athwart the morn the murky clouds drive fast,
And on the sea-coast shrieks a bird of night.
Still moans the siren in her sea-grot cool;

Her song
And thrill the night with joy, and once could cause
The rosy waves to dance with ecstasy

- that once could change the fate of braves

So sweet that she herself would faint with love

Had failed to win the hero of her heart.
From out her long, black, rippled hair, she twists
The wreaths of coral and of amber beads;

And from her rounded arms and throat she draws
The strands of pearl, and flings them to the deep.
Out on the waves she threw her burning arms,
And sought to cool her fevered agony;

She pressed her parching temple to the sea,
And to her throbbing heart the sea throbbed back; -
And then her passionate wild voice she raised
Above the howl of waves and shout of winds.

"Prepare within thy depths, this night, for me
A peaceful couch to rest me. on, O sea!
I've wreathed my brow, I've sung my song in vain
To win my home-bound hero from the main.

I tire of life- the loveless cheat; and soon

Deep in a jewelled cave I'll sleep serene.

O wavelets, sing your requiems soft and low,
For, grief-propelled, beneath I go! I go!
I'll sleep serene until some midnight hour—
O hero, home returned! by love's strong power

I'll stir me from my death-sleep in the sea,

And haunt thy dreams with songs erst heard by me;

And I will meet thee at the gate of sleep,

To draw thee to my cave-home thro' the deep.

O wavelets, sing your requiems soft and low,
For, grief-propelled, beneath I go! I go!"

Her prose is equally striking and effective, as may be observed in her description of a friend:

"The contemplation of a prophetic and ravishing specimen of God's work, though uncompleted, is blinding and transporting. I see one now who is touched with the chrism of adoption, and,

"In a molten glory shrined

That rays off into the gloom,'

so dazes and bewilders eyes, all used to darkness, as to render description an impoverishment.

66 However, this one is my subject: but she possesses so much of countenance and character that is versative and varied, as to almost elude speech. "Her faces are as numerous as the fabled Typhoeus, and her dispositions are quite as various. It may be said that her individuality is versatility.

'Behold to-day a countenance that is sweet innocence! Her eyes have the mysterious shade and immaturity of the dawn, and she is as trusting, and joyous, and pliant as the sweetest child. When suddenly you view the face of a hero, sublimated and unutterable; a face that represents the character of an Anne Askew, or the 'Maid of Orleans,' earnest, powerful, and indefatigable, and the might and truth of genius is dominant. 'The truth is the right,' she says; 'it matters not who blindly judges, it matters little who defames, so that I have lived my life.'

66

'Again you are presented to la belle de la jour. The fair physique is regnant; debonair and nymphish, splendent and dazzling, her face and figure being a perfect typification of June. A sensuous tinting and opulence in cheek and hair; a sweetness and fulness in lips and contour; a matchless ease and languor in figure, and a pervading atmosphere of such perfume and ripeness that verily represents the June embodied, and you would undoubtedly exclaim, 'Why, lo! the summer is here!'

"Or, again, she is a queen of tragedy, or a poetess, sad, weary, and touching. However, it must be said, there is over all a dignity and loftiness that is innate and patent, and which is the seal and stamp of her character.

"Yet is there another part of this nature that an unanointed pen can never depict.

"It is a lease of the Lord, an ascension spot, a haunt of spirits white and sanctified, and a voice says, as the voice of the Almighty to Moses from the burning bush, 'Tread with feet unshod, for this is holy ground.'

"There are divine radiations from this heaven within that come to us. A returning of love for hatred; 'a cup of cold water administered to a calumniator, and I have a vision.' It is this:

"A hospital of vagabonds, wherein is foulness and miasma; a dismal gloom, and through this gloom there passes a light. Is it a ray of the halo about the Redeemer's head?

"A cot, whereon a creature, physically depraved and obnoxious, and beside the cot a woman, chaste and luminous, kneeling, and, with white, undefiled hands, washing the feet, grimed and blackened, of the wretched Pariah. "And 'the light' is this saintly presence. It is seldom that we find physical beauty, wit, brilliancy, and depth of intellect, sweetness of heart, an austere virtue, and a saintly devotion and charity, so lavishly given, so collectively bestowed. But one would say that these munificences are not misplaced, as they are possessed with so much modesty and unconsciousness, and so religiously and discreetly employed.

"There are some verses that one who knew her would say should have been written of her:

"And if any painter drew her,
He would paint her unaware
With a halo round her hair.

In personal appearance Miss Torbett is rather petite, yet her figure is full and perfect; her eyes are hazel; her hair, a shining goldenbrown, and her complexion clear and brilliant. She resides with her aunt at a beautiful country-seat a few miles from Louisville, Ky.

A MADRIGAL.

I.

Bend in homage, stately roses, for a queen doth pass to-day.
Breathe not, lest you taint the pure robes of the queen who goes this
She is whiter than the lilies; she's the sweetest of the sweet;
She is all that's fine and perfect-oh, my one with grace replete !

In the woodland dim and silent coos and coos a wee sad dove.
Hush! O sighing ring-dove, till I hear the footfall of my love.
List! she cometh! she-my angel; and her azure covering
Is a part of heaven's own blueness 'bout her fair form hovering.

And I look to see the halo 'round the golden of her hair,
And my heart-pulse throbbeth fainter as she cometh — oh, the fair!
Cometh thro' the yielding, ravished, scented, amber evening air,
Up the ranks of startled roses, marshalled in the gay parterre,

With a motion like a blossom swaying in the summer wind.
Stop, my splendor! wait a minute! lest thy glory strikes me blind.
Holy lips and glitt'ring tresses, sweet, celestial eyes are hers.

way:

Oh, my Florence! oh, my faultless! thy grand sweetness quickens tears!

Bend in homage, stately roses, for a queen doth pass to-day.

Breathe not, lest you taint the pure robes of the queen who goes this way:
She is whiter than the lilies; she's the sweetest of the sweet;
She is all that's fine and perfect- oh, my one with grace replete !

II.

In the desolated woodland, moan and moan, O little dove!

Naught's below but wide-drawn darkness, and gray autumn-clouds above. Yet I care not for the pale day, wasting, dying patiently,

For I'm listening, lest I hear not, should God's angel call for me.

Where's the face, so white and glorious, erst did move my soul to bliss?
Oh, my Florence- mine, my sainted! she is dead to me, I wis;
And the blossoms, gay and graceful, that adorned this garden-path,
They have had their day, O sweet ones, and are gone with autumn's death.

And I stand alone, heart empty, with my idol turned to clay-
She, the one I named "my sainted,"'s only earth, dead earth, to-day.
Just a woman, small and slender, with two wild'ring eyes of blue,
Burnished bands of golden hair, and a rose mouth moist with dew.

La femme Florence, sweet and winsome, is a beauteous treachery.
O my God! my other Florence, "saint unspotted," where is she?
Where's the face, so white and glorious, erst did move my soul to bliss ?
Oh, my Florence-mine, my sainted! she is dead to me, I wis.

In the desolated woodland, moan and moan, O little dove!

Naught's below but wide-drawn darkness, and gray autumn-clouds above. Yet I care not for the pale day, wasting, dying patiently;

For I'm listening, lest I hear not, should God's angel call for me.