The dear ones at home, she prayed God to bless,
And all of her friends, and him she loved best,
But her voice sank low when she came to that;

And when she had prayed for all of the rest, "God pity the poor all around our doors,

Send ravens each day from his boundless store, With bread in their mouths for the hungry poor, As the prophet was fed in the days of yore."

The robber stole out from the house that night
As poor as he came, for silver or gold,

But richer by far in a something else

He could not have bought and would not have sold. And he sat him down by his fireless hearth,

Yet not in despair as he'd done before,

But trusting the morn would bring to his door
Some message of life for the starving poor.

And the children stopped in their hungry cry

To stare at the maid with her strange behest;
But the father saw on the maiden's breast

The lily-white dove with the golden crest
One of the ravens. "I knew she would come,
She is sent from God," he solemnly said,
As with reverent hands he received the bread,
And Mary rose up from her precious dead.



ISS WAKELEE is one of those talented women who have yet to make a literary career. A friend of hers says: "Of all shrinking and modest women, Miss Wakelee is most so.” For twelve years she has written constantly, but, mimosa-like, has shrunk from the ordeal of publication. A story from her pen appeared in the “Saturday Evening Post," Philadelphia, and one in the " American Union," Boston. In 1863, the novelette of "India Morgan; or, The Lost Will," was a successful competitor for a prize offered by the "Southern Field and Fireside" newspaper. A novelette entitled, "The Forest City Bride," a tale of life in Savannah and Augusta during the war, furnished to "Scott's Magazine," was a lifelike narrative. Miss Wakelee is very natural indeed in her delineations of life and manners. She needs a friendly, encouraging hand, and I honestly believe is destined, at no distant day, to take a front rank among the writers of our land.

Before the war, Miss Wakelee wrote only to please her friends. The following tribute to the brave commander of the ill-fated steamship "Central America," printed in Godey's "Lady Book," December, 1858, was from her pen:


A song for the brave-let it roll like the sea

From every red lip that has pillowed a prayer,
From every warm heart gush boundless and free,

Re-echoed by angels through viewless air,
Wide spreading in beauty, and swelling with might,
From the east to the west, on the wings of the light.

An anthem of praise for the hero who stood,

Undaunted and firm, in the battle of death---
Below him, deep thund'ring, the boiling flood,

Above him, in fury, the wild tempest's breath;
No thought of himself, despair, or the grave,
While there was a woman his mercy could save.

A single thought stirred his heart's quivering strings-
He heard, for a moment, the music of home;
His brain madly reeled, while his straining eyes gazed
Unblenched on his fate-a swift-speeding doom.
His livid lips set, and his white brow grew pale;
But his hand nobly wrought, his soul did not quail.

Down, down in the depths of the deep he may lie,

The spot all unmarked to the swift passer o’er,
But his name, like a star, shall be set in the sky,
And woman forever his mem'ry adore:

Bright angels descend to his pillow at even,

There keep watch until Earth shall melt into Heaven.

Now, like most of our Southern women, Miss Wakelee is comparatively impoverished, and her pen must become a "mighty instrument."

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Miss Wakelee was born in Connecticut, a great-granddaughter of Governor Law, of that State; but she has lived so long in Georgia, has so thoroughly identified herself with the interests of that State and the South, that no one ever remembers she was not to the " manor born."

Miss Wakelee is elegantly educated, polished in manners, of a cheerful and sympathizing temperament, making her, as a gentleman remarks, the friend and favorite of everybody. She is charming in conversation, and her manuscript is the neatest and most legible of any of the "Southland writers."

Her home is in Richmond County, Georgia noted for the intellect of the fair daughters thereof.

a county that is


Gather to-day the blue-bird is ringing
Over the aisles of the forest his singing,
Sunshine with roses and music is wed;
Every light breeze is an anthem of pleasure,
Perfume and brightness, measure for measure;
This is the day we give to the dead.

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The day the graves of the "Confederate" dead are dressed with flowers.

Give to the soldiers who nobly have perished;
Give with the burden of love we have cherished;
Give with spring blossoms to garland each grave;
Fill up the ranks, an unbroken column
March with bowed heads in reverence solemn,
Ever recounting the deeds of the brave.

Gather the old, with locks silver-sprinkled ;
Gather the youth, with fair brows unwrinkled;

Even the lambs of the flock should be there;
Maidenhood crowned with blossoming beauty,
Manhood perfected by crosses of duty,

All of the brave, the noble and fair.

Roll back the years to the dark days of battle,
Echoing still with musketry's rattle,

Learn what we are to the brave hearts who stood Serried like steel with the foemen contending, Marching to death like heroes unbending,

Only surrendering with their heart's blood.

Reverent hearts the death-roll should number,
Loving hands crown the spot where they slumber
With roses all red, like goblets of wine,
Ready to pour a perfumed libation,
Worthy the dust, for this sweet consecration,
Holier trust, never hallowed a shrine.


"Not at home!"

'T was a night when the sky seemed to wear
With glorious effulgence the light of each star,
Some clustering together like Eastern pearls strewn,
And some like a diamond burning alone.

The air, clear and cold, like a sabre was keen,
While icicled spears, in their glittering sheen,
Were pointing a roof with frost-moss overspread -
Moss purely white, as the brow of the dead.
The roof of a mansion that loomed to the sky,
Of pure Doric marble, with pillars so high,
With groining and arches, with turrets and towers,
The broad entrance twined with white marble flowers.

Without, all was splendor and winter and night;
Within, there was summer and beauty and light;
For sunshine streamed down from the bright lamps, that swung
Like radiant stars, in each silver sconce hung.
Through rich damask curtains, with roseate glow
Like warm crimson clouds, the light flitted through.
Here ruby-lipped roses and red coral-flowers,
With snow-flaked japonicas, blossomed in showers.
And here, well befitting the glory around,
Bloomed Melanie Maxwell, sceptred and crowned
With such sovereign beauty an eye like a star,
Rare wealth of luxuriant, golden-brown hair,

That rippled like threads of spun gold, when unbound,

Or braided all glossily, circled around

Her well-moulded head: her small pearl-cut ear,
Her rosy-tipped fingers, and cheeks seemed to wear
The softest rose flush of the pink-hearted shell;
Her forehead and throat like a lily's white bell
Were dazzlingly white; her mouth, like a bow,
Well threaded with pearls, in its ripe crimson glow.
And every outline of her well-rounded form
Was curving with loveliness, graceful and warm.

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Here would we might pause. Strange that aught should mar

Creation so faultless, so dazzlingly fair.

Woe, woe, that the mandates of fashion should rule!
Let an angel be sent to a French boarding-school,
Its feet placed in stocks, its wings laced in stays,
Its tongue trained to twirr the “ Français parlez,"
Trained by Madame at morn, and Monsieur at even,
It cannot but sully the livery of Heaven.


Poor Melanie's mother and she were twin-born,
Both woke into life on the same golden morn;
One baptism of sorrow to each brow was given,
But one grew on earth, and the other in heaven.

For ten pleasant years, the child scarce had known
Which one of the twain had been angel-born,
With a father's fond love, and a beautiful home
Where the world was shut out, no ill dared to come.
She woke with the flowers at earliest dawn,
She sang like the birds, she leaped like a fawn,
She laughed loud and clear, she shed real tears,
She trusted and loved without doubting fears.

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