The brook-flowers shine,
  And a faint song the falling water has,—­
    But not for thee! 
  The dull night weepeth, and the sorrowing pine
  Drops his dead hair upon thy young grave-grass,
    My Coralie! my Coralie!

* * * * *

    I took from its glass a flower,
  To lay on her grave with dull accusing tears;
  But the heart of the flower fell out as I handled the rose,
  And my heart is shattered, and soon will wither away.

    I watch the changing shadows,
  And the patch of windy sunshine upon the hill,
  And the long blue woods; and a grief no tongue can tell
  Breaks at my eyes in drops of bitter rain.

    I hear her baby-wagon,
  And the little wheels go over my heart;
  Oh, when will the light of the darkened house return? 
  Oh, when will she come who made the hills so fair?

    I sit by the parlor-window,
  When twilight deepens, and winds get cold without;
  But the blessed feet no more come up the walk,
  And my little girl and I cry softly together.

* * * * *

SOJOURNER TRUTH, THE LIBYAN SIBYL.

Many years ago, the few readers of radical Abolitionist papers must often have seen the singular name of Sojourner Truth, announced as a frequent speaker at Anti-Slavery meetings, and as travelling on a sort of self-appointed agency through the country.  I had myself often remarked the name, but never met the individual.  On one occasion, when our house was filled with company, several eminent clergymen being our guests, notice was brought up to me that Sojourner Truth was below, and requested an interview.  Knowing nothing of her but her singular name, I went down, prepared to make the interview short, as the pressure of many other engagements demanded.

When I went into the room, a tall, spare form arose to meet me.  She was evidently a full-blooded African, and though now aged and worn with many hardships, still gave the impression of a physical development which in early youth must have been as fine a specimen of the torrid zone as Cumberworth’s celebrated statuette of the Negro Woman at the Fountain.  Indeed, she so strongly reminded me of that figure, that, when I recall the events of her life, as she narrated them to me, I imagine her as a living, breathing impersonation of that work of art.

I do not recollect ever to have been conversant with any one who had more of that silent and subtle power which we call personal presence than this woman.  In the modern Spiritualistic phraseology, she would be described as having a strong sphere.  Her tall form, as she rose up before me, is still vivid to my mind.  She was dressed in some stout, grayish stuff, neat and clean, though dusty from travel.  On her head she wore a bright Madras handkerchief, arranged as a turban, after the manner of her race.  She seemed perfectly self-possessed and at her ease,—­in fact, there was almost an unconscious superiority, not unmixed with a solemn twinkle of humor, in the odd, composed manner in which she looked down on me.  Her whole air had at times a gloomy sort of drollery which impressed one strangely.