On her passage to India, Mrs. Judson passed in sight of that island which must ever attract the gaze of men of every clime and nation,—­the rocky prison and tomb of the conqueror of nations, Napoleon Bonaparte.  But to her the island had more tender associations; awakened more touching recollections.  It was as the grave of Sarah Judson, that her successor gazed long and tearfully on the Isle of St. Helena; and she thus embodied her feelings in song.

    LINES WRITTEN OFF ST. HELENA.

    Blow softly, gales! a tender sigh
      Is flung upon your wing;
    Lose not the treasure as ye fly,
    Bear it where love and beauty lie,
      Silent and withering.

    Flow gently, waves! a tear is laid
      Upon your heaving breast;
    Leave it within yon dark rock’s shade
    Or weave it in an iris braid,
      To crown the Christian’s rest

    Bloom, ocean isle, lone ocean isle! 
      Thou keep’st a jewel rare;
    Let rugged rock, and dark defile,
    Above the slumbering stranger smile
      And deck her couch with care.

    Weep, ye bereaved! a dearer head,
      Ne’er left the pillowing breast;
    The good, the pure, the lovely fled,
    When mingling with the shadowy dead,
      She meekly went to rest.

    Mourn, Burmah, mourn! a bow which spanned
      Thy cloud has passed away;
    A flower has withered on thy sand,
    A pitying spirit left thy strand,
      A saint has ceased to pray.

    Angels rejoice, another string
      Has caught the strains above. 
    Rejoice, rejoice! a new-fledged wing
    Around the Throne is hovering,
      In sweet, glad, wondering love.

    Blow, blow, ye gales! wild billows roll! 
      Unfurl the canvas wide! 
    O! where she labored lies our goal: 
    Weak, timid, frail, yet would my soul
      Fain be to hers allied.

  Ship Faneuil Hall, Sept. 1846.

On the birth of an infant, she expressed her first maternal feelings, in verses of such exquisite beauty, that they can never be omitted in any collection of the gems of poetry—­least of all in any collection of her poems.

The following are the verses alluded to: 

    MY BIRD.

    Ere last year’s moon had left the sky,
      A birdling sought my Indian nest
    And folded, oh so lovingly! 
      Her tiny wings upon my breast.

    From morn till evening’s purple tinge,
      In winsome helplessness she lies;
    Two rose leaves, with a silken fringe,
      Shut softly on her starry eyes.

    There’s not in Ind a lovelier bird;
      Broad earth owns not a happier nest
    O God, thou hast a fountain stirred,
      Whose waters never more shall rest!

    This beautiful, mysterious thing,
      This seeming visitant from heaven,
    This bird with the immortal wing,
      To me—­to me, thy hand has given.