MISS WOODMAN is the authoress of The Casket of Gems, and two or three other small volumes, and she has been for several years a teacher in the public schools of Boston, of

which city she is a native. Many of her poems appeared in the miscellanies edited by her friend Mrs. Edgarton Mayo. There is no published collection of them.

THE ANNUNCIATION.

Luke i. 26-38.

SILENCE o'er ancient Judah! "Twas the hush
Of holy eve, and through the balmy air
There came a trembling and melodious gush
Of softest melody, as if the prayer

Of kneeling thousands had prevailed on high,
And angel choirs were bending to reply.
Man heard the sound of music, and arose,
And cast the mantle of despair away,
And said, "Deliverance comes, forget your woes,
There dawns on Judah her triumphant day."
But, with the solemn strain of music, passed
The hopes too flattering and too fair to last.

Not so to one, the humblest of her race-
For to her startled and astonished eye
There came a visitant of matchless grace,
Robed in a garment of celestial dye:
"Fear not, thou highly favored"-thus he sang,
While Heaven's high arches with the echoes rang.
"Fear not, thy God is with thee, and hast poured
The richest of his blessings on thy head;
And thou wilt bear a son, on whom the Lord
The fulness of his grace and power will shed:
His name shall be Emmanuel, Mighty One,
Savior of men, and God's anointed Son."

Oh, who can paint the rushing tides of thought Which swept like lightning through the startled mind

Of that lone worshipper, whose faith was brought
Thus suddenly its utmost verge to find:
It failed not, and the curtain was withdrawn
Which veiled futurity's effulgent dawn.
She rose with brow serene: her eyes forgot
Their dreamy softness, and were upward cast,
Filled with celestial radiance. Earth had not
The power that glorious prophecy to blast:
"Behold the handmaid of the Lord, and teach
The trembling lip to frame submissive speech!"
Again there floated on the ambient air

That thrilling melody, while countless throngs, Waving their golden censers, heard the prayer, Which mingled with their own triumphant songs.

The vision faded in a sea of light,
And left to earth the still and holy night.

WHEN WILT THOU LOVE ME? LOVE me when the spring is here,

With its busy bird and bee; When the air is soft and clear,

And the heart is full of glee; When the leaves and buds are seen Bursting from the naked bough, Dearest, with a faint serene,

Wilt thou love me then as now?

When the queenly June is dressed
In her robes so fair and bright;
When the earth, most richly blessed,
Sleeps in soft and golden light;
When the sweetest songs are heard
In the forest, on the hill-
When thy soul by these is stirred,

Dearest, wilt thou love me still?
When the harvest-moon looks out

On the fields of ripened grain; When the merry reapers shout While they glean the burdened plain; When, their labors o'er, they sit Listening to the night-bird's lay, May there o'er thy memory flit

Thoughts of one far, far away! When the winter hunts the bird

From his leafy home and bower; When the bee, no longer heard,

Bides the cold, ungenial hour; When the blossoms rise no more From the garden, field, and glen; When our forest joys are o'er,

Dearest, wilt thou love me then? Love for ever! 'tis the spring Whence our choicest blessings flow! Angel harps its praises sing,

Angel hearts its secrets know. When thy feet are turned away

From the busy haunts of menWhen thy feet in Eden stray, Dearest, wilt thou love me then?

SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY was born in Hanover county, Virginia, where the early years of her childhood were passed. Her father was descended from one of those Huguenots who, escaping the massacre of St. Bartholomew, fled to America, and settled in Virginia. He studied law under the late Judge Robert Taylor of Norfolk, but on account of ill health subsequently resigned the practice of his profession, and retired to a place in the immediate vicinity of Richmond, where he recently died, and where his family still resides.Her mother was a daughter of Captain Archer, of one of the oldest and most distinguished families of Norfolk.

Miss Talley was remarkable for a precocity of intellect and an early development of character. Though of an exceedingly happy temperament, she rarely mingled with other children, but would spend most of her time in reading, in an intense application to study, or in wandering amid the beautiful woods and meadows that surrounded her father's residence. At nine years of age she suddenly and entirely lost her hearing, which had evidently the effect of subduing the natural joyousness of her disposition, and of producing that dreamy and contemplative tone of character which has since distinguished her. It may be said that from this period till she was sixteen her life was passed in the solitude of her chamber, where she seemed to derive from books a constant and ever increasing enjoyment. In consequence of her extreme diffidence it was not until she was in her fifteenth year that the nature and force of her talents were apprehended by her most intimate associates. A manuscript volume of her verses now fell under the observation of her father, who saw in them illustrations of unlooked-for powers, to the cultivation of which he subsequently devoted himself with intelligent and assiduous care while he lived. When she was about seventeen years of age some of her poems appeared in The Southern Literary Messenger, and, yielding to the wishes of her friends, she has since been a

frequent and popular contributor to that excellent magazine.

What is most noticeable in the poems of Miss Talley is their rhythmical harmony, considered in connexion with her perfect insensibility to sound, for a period so long that she could not have had before its commencement any ideas of musical expression or poetical art. The only instance in literary history in which so melodious a versification has been attained under similar circumstances is that of James Nack, the deaf and dumb poet of New York, whose writings were several years ago given to the public by Mr. Prosper M. Wetmore. There is not in Mr. Nack's poems, however, any single composition that can be compared with Ennerslie, in grace, or variety of cadences, or in ideal beauty. This poem, without being an imitation, will remind the reader of one of the finest productions of Tennyson.

Miss Talley is remarkable not only for the peculiar interest of her character, but for the variety of her abilities. She is a painter as well as a poet, and some of the productions of her pencil have been praised by the best critics in the arts of design, both for striking and original conception and for skilful execution. Her friends therefore anticipate for her a distinguished position among those women who have cultivated painting, and they find in her pictures the same characteristics that mark her literary compositions.

that

Young, and gifted with such unusual powers, she rarely mingles in society beyond the select circle of friends by whom she is surrounded. She finds her happiness in the quiet pleasures and affections of home. Her life is essentially that of a poet. Ardent in temperament, yet shrinkingly sensitive, with a fine fancy which is often warmed into imagination, and an instinctive apprehension and love of the various forms of beauty, poetry becomes the expression of her nature, and the compensation for that infirmity by which she is deprived of half the pleasures that minister to a fine intelligence.

ENNERSLIE.

I.

A HOARY tower, grim and high,
All beneath a summer sky,
Where the river glideth by

Sullenly-sullenly;

Across the wave in slugglish gloom,
Heavy and black the shadows loom,
But the water-lilies brightly bloom
Round about grim Ennerslie.
All upon the bank below
Alders green and willows grow,
That ever sway them to and fro
Mournfully-mournfully;
Never a boat doth pass that way,
Never is heard a carol gay,
Nor doth a weary pilgrim stray
Down by haunted Ennerslie.
Yet in that tower is a room
From whose oaken-fretted dome
Weird faces peer athwart the gloom
Mockingly-mockingly;

And there beside the taper's gleam
That maketh darkness darker seem,
Like one that waketh in a dream,

Sits the lord of Ennerslie: Sitteth in his carvéd chairFrom his forehead pale and fair Falleth down the raven hair

Heavily-heavily;

There is no color on his cheek,
His lip is pale--he doth not speak,
And rarely doth his footstep break

The stillness of grim Ennerslie.
From the casement, mantled o'er
With ivy-boughs and lichens hoar,
The shadows creep along the floor
Stealthily-stealthily;

They glide along, a spectral train,
And rest upon the crimson stain
Where of old a corpse was lain-
Murdered at grim Ennerslie.
In a niche within the wall,
Where the shadows deepest fall,
Like a coffin and a pall,

Gloomily-gloomily,

Sits an owlet, huge and gray,
That there hath sat for many a day,
And like a ghost doth gaze alway
Upon the lord of Ennerslie;
Gazeth with its mystic eyes
Ever in a weird surprise,

Like some demon in disguise,
Ceaselessly ceaselessly;
And close beside that haunted nook,
Bendeth o'er an open book,
With a strange and dreamy look,

The pale young lord of Ennerslie.

With a measured step and slow,
At times he paces to and fro,
Muttering in whispers low,
Fitfully-fitfully;

Or resting in his ancient chair,
Gazing on the vacant air—
Sure some phantom sees he there,
The haunted lord of Ennerslie!
There is a picture on the wall,
A statue on a pedestal-
Standing where the sunbeams fall
Goldenly goldenly;

And in either form and face
The self-same beauty you may trace-
Imaged with a wondrous grace,

That angel-form at Ennerslie !
Once, 't is said, upon a time,
Ere his manhood's golden prime,
Wandering in a southern clime

Restlessly restlessly,

There passed him by a lady fair,
With violet eyes and golden hair:
It is her form that gleameth there,
That angel-form at Ennerslie.
When the stars are in the west,
And the water-lilies rest,
Rocking on the river's breast
Sleepily-sleepily-

When the curfew, far remote,
Blendeth with the night-bird's note,
Down the river glides a boat

From the shades of Ennerslie.
Glideth on by Ellesmaire,
Where doth dwell a lady fair,
With violet eyes and golden hair,
Lonesomely-lonesomely;

At the window's height alway
She weaves a scarf of colors gay,
And in the distance far away

She seeth haunted Ennerslie.
Sitting in her lonely room,
Ere the twilight's purple gloom,
Weaving at her fairy loom
Wearily-wearily,

She heareth music sweet and low:
It is a song she well doth know;
She used to sing it long ago—

It cometh up from Ennerslie.
Back she threw the casement wide;
She saw the river onward glide,
The lilies nodding on the tide
Sleepily-sleepily;

She saw a boat with snowy sail
Bearing onward with the gale;
She saw the silken streamer pale-
She saw the lord of Ennerslie !

She doth not smile, she doth not sigh-
Above her is the cold gray sky;
Below, the river moaneth by
Drearily drearily ;

She sees the withered leaflets ride
Like fairy barks adown the tide :
She saith, "Right merrily they glide,
For they go down to Ennerslie."
Beside her on the hearth of stone,
There sits a bent and withered crone,
Who doth for ever rock and moan

Drowsily-drowsily;

She crooneth songs of mystic rhyme,
And legends of the olden time;

She telleth tales of death and crime-
She tells of haunted Ennerslie.

She telleth how, as she hath heard,
How dwelleth there a demon weird
In seeming of an owsel-bird,

Ceaselessly ceaselessly;

And how that fiend must linger still,
And work the master wo and ill,
Till one shall dare with fearless will

Go down to haunted Ennerslie.
She telleth how-that ancient crone-
He loved a lady years agone,"
The fairest that the earth has known,
Secretly-secretly—

But dare not woo her for his bride,
Because that death will sure betide
The first that in her beauty's pride

Shall go to haunted Ennerslie.
She listened--but she nothing said;
Like a lily drooped her head,

Her white hand wound the silken thread
Carelessly-carelessly;

She rove the scarf from out the loom,
She slowly paced across the room,
And gleaming through the midnight gloom
She saw the light at Ennerslie.

The nurse she slumbered in her chalr:
Then up arose that lady fair
And crept adown the winding stair

Silently-silently;

A boat was by the river-side,
The silken web as sail she tied,
And lovely in her beauty's pride,
Went sailing down to Ennerslie.

Back upon the sighing gale
Her tresses floated like a veil ;

Her brow was cold, her cheek was pale,
Fearfully-fearfully;

She heard strange whispers in her ear,
She saw a shadow hover near-
Her very life-blood chilled with fear,
As down she went to Ennerslie.
As upward her blue eyes she cast,
A shadowy form there flitted past,
And settled on the quivering mast
Silently silently.

The lady gazed, yet spake no word:
She knew it was the evil bird,

The wicked demon, grim and weird,

That dwelt at haunted Ennerslie. Fainter from the tower's height Seems to her the beacon-light, Gleaming on her darkening sight Fitfully-fitfully;

The river's voice is faint and low,
An icy calm is on her brow;
She saith, "The curse is on me now,
But he is free at Ennerslie!"
Within that tower's solitude
He sitteth in a musing mood,
And gazeth down upon the flood
Dreamily-dreamily:

When lo! he sees a fairy bark
Gliding amid the shadows dark,
And there a lady still and stark-
A wondrous sight at Ennerslie.
He hurried to the bank below,
Upon the strand he drew the prow—
He drew it in the moonlight's glow,

Eagerly eagerly;

He parted back the golden hair
That veiled the cheek and forehead fair;
He started at her beauty rare,

The pale young lord of Ennerslie. He called her name: she nothing said; Upon his bosom drooped her head; The color from her wan cheek fled Utterly utterly.

Slowly rolled the sluggish tide,
The breeze amid the willows sighed;
"This is too deep a curse!" he cried-
The stricken lord of Ennerslie.

GENIUS.

SPIRIT immortal and divine!
Whose calm and searching eye
Looks forth upon the universe,
Its wonders to descry-
Whose eagle-wing, resistless, proud,
Hath soared above each misty cloud
That o'er us darkly spread-

I bow before thee, as of old
The Grecian bowed to her who told
The oracles of dread.

For thou art Nature's prophet-priest,
Anointed by her God,

And dwellest in her sacred courts,

By others all untrod:

To thee alone 'tis given to raise
The veil that shrouds from mortal gaze

Her mysteries sublime;

To hear her sweet and solemn tone
Revealing wonders else unknown
In all the lapse of time.

And more-the human heart is deep,
And passionate, and strong,
But thou mayst read its sealed page,
And search its depths among;
Mayst bow it with thy spell of might,

Or urge it to a prouder flight,
A loftier desire-

Till, yielding to thy high control,
The newly-wakened, eager soul,
To purer things aspire.

Thou dwellest on this lowly earth,

Majestic and alone;

Thy home is in a brighter clime,
Near the Eternal's throne;
And evermore, in tameless might,
Still strivest thou to wing thy flight,
Its glory to attain;

E'en as the eagle turns his eye,

Though fettered, to his native sky, And struggles with his chain.

Men gaze in strange and wondering awe
On thine inspired brow,

But reck not of the hidden things
That darkly sleep below;
Nor how thou spurnest earth's control,
What voices haunt thy troubled soul-

What shadows round thee play;
Thy dreams are all of future bliss,
Of other worlds-and e'en in this
Thy name shall not decay!
Sage! musing in thy lonely cell-
Aspiring, yet serene;
Tracking afar the light of truth,

Through darkness dimly seen

A thousand minds thy truths have caught,
And pondered o'er thy lofty thought,
In inspiration high:

A thousand minds have scanned the page
Made clearer by the lapse of age,

In which thy treasures lie. Bard--lo! the thrilling strain that poured Thy soul's deep melodies, Have waked in many an echoing heart

A thousand sympathies;

Have lived through years of dull decay
When princely names have passed away,
That were a glory then,

Till every word hath thus become
Like to a thrilling voice of home,
In the deep hearts of men!
And ye o'er whose inspired souls
Strange shapes of beauty gleamed,
Embodied to the gaze of men

In forms of heaven that seemed-
The marble still in beauty lives,
The pictured canvass but receives
New value from decay;

And both shall perish ere the name
Of him who gave them unto fame
Hath passed, like them, away.

And they, to whom were given the gift
Of Inspiration's tongue-
Upon whose high, commanding words
Senates in rapture hung;

And they, the dauntless chiefs and brave,
On battle-field and ocean-wave,

Who won a lofty fame-
Lo! deathless, and defying Time,

A thousand monuments sublime
Commemorate each name!

Thus Genius lives-its spirit caught
From heaven's own height afar,
Shines tranquil mid the gloom of earth,
An ever-guiding star:

A shining mark that's given to show
To those who darkly tread below
The way our pathway tends;
A beauty and a mystery,
A prophecy of things to be

When earthly being ends!

A prophecy of glorious things-
Of holy things and bright,
Which we behold not through the mists
That dim our mortal sight;

A voice that whispers from afar,
Telling of wondrous things that are

Where perfectness hath power!

A light to guide the spirit on
Till that celestial state be won

Which was our primal dower.
Thou shalt go forth in prouder might
And firmer strength ere long,
And Truth shall guide thee on thy way
With revelation strong;
And thou shalt see with wondering eyes
The thousand mighty mysteries

That round our being cling; Unfolding truths whose shadows lie Darkly before the doubting eye,

Our souls bewildering.

High souls have gazed on wondrous things,

And men have called them dreamsBut they are such as shadowed stars

Upon the mirroring streams;
We gaze upon the phantom-glow-
Alas! we gaze too much below-

And strive to grasp in vain;
But Genius turns his gaze afar,
Where like a pure and shining star
The glorious truth is seen!
Go forth, thou spirit proud and high,
Upon thy soaring flight!
Thou art the messenger of God,

And he will guide thee right.
Go proudly forth and fearlessly,
For many a hidden mystery

Awaits thee to unseal:
And men shall gaze in rapt surprise
On wonders that to darkened eyes
Thy brightness shall reveal!

MY SISTER.

I HAVE an only sister,
Fresh in her girlish glee,
For she is only seventeen,
And still is fancy free:
She has a fair and happy face,

Like cloudless skies in MayOr like a lake, where tranquilly The silver moonbeams play.