Composition is said to be the index of the mind, if so, how necessary it is that there should be no improper word or idea expressed, no blot or tarnish should be upon the fair page; how chaste and elegant should be the diction, how pure and refined the idea, how simple and concise the expression.  It should be like the glassy lake that reflects an unclouded sky—­the mirror of a spotless mind.

Lines, Written in Answer to the Question “Where Is Our Poet?”

  Ask you for the poet lyre? 
  What can touch his soul with fire,
  When from ev’ry passing cloud
  The storm-king whistles shrill and loud,
  And nature shrieks her requiem wild,
  O’er summer, her departed child. 
  When through the shortened winter day
  The languid sun sheds sickly ray,
  And struggling moonbeams seem at most,
  Dim meteor forms of Ossian’s ghost. 
  Then shall not I, a feeble maid,
  Of the Muses be afraid? 
  When poets sleep with talents fine,
  Shall I approach the “sacred Nine?”
  But when I heard the vesper bell
  Mournful peal its sad farewell;
  And murmuring through the evening air,
  Echo only answered, “where?”
  I thought I’d chase my fears away,
  And conjure up a simple lay. 
  Ye poets who have talents ten,
  Excuse the errors of my pen;
  The best I could do I have done,
  For reader I have scarcely one.

My Husband’s Grave.

In looking over the foregoing pages, I feel that sad indeed have been my wanderings in the shady paths of life.  The aged friends of my childhood have been buried over again.  The last sad parting from many dear friends has been noted down; the deaths of sister, brother and mother, have been noticed in sad rotation; grand-children have sprung up, beside the way, flourished for a little season, then faded like the pale, withering leaves of autumn, and passed away from earth forever.

O, Memory, thy garland has indeed been entwined, with many a withered flower, whose leaves though faded, emit a sweet fragrance to the heart, and lead it to a purer, holier trust in heaven.

But there is a deeper shadow, a gloomier shade, a sadder spot upon earth, than we have yet visited.  It is the recently made grave of my husband—­the father of my children, who passed suddenly away, leaving his afflicted family, bereft of his counsel, his watch care, and his support.

As I stand in this sad spot, and gaze upon that lone grave, with tearful eyes and a bursting heart, memory comes like a tide, throwing over my soul the remembrances of the many—­many years we have journeyed on together, since our first acquaintance in academic halls (for our intimacy first commenced in school), and all the sad loneliness of the present presses like a weight upon me, crushing me to the earth, and obscuring all the sunshine of earthly bliss.

How sad and desolate is the home from which some loved one has been borne suddenly away, with the firm assurance that “the places that once knew them shall know them no more forever.”