es of
his relative, will only say she is now a widow, with three sons, the
youngest of whom seems to have inherited much of his mother's poetic
talent, and who, though only about ten years of age, has written some
very creditable verses, which have been published.

Within a year or two, Emma has developed a talent for painting, which
seems to have been overshadowed and dwarfed by her poetic faculty, but
which now bids fair to make her as famous as an artist as she has long
been as a poetess. She resides in Danville, Illinois, and is about
publishing a volume of poems, which will be the first book from her pen.

The following selections have been made with the view of showing the
versatility, rather than the poetic beauty and power of their author.
Most, if not all, of those designated as earlier poems were written more
than thirty years ago.

EARLIER POEMS.

MY BROTHER.

Oh, brier rose clamber;
And cover the chamber--
The chamber, so dreary and lone--
Where with meekly-closed lips,
And eyes in eclipse,
My brother lies under the stone.

Oh, violets, cover,
The narrow roof over,
Oh, cover the window and door!
For never the lights,
Through the long days and nights,
Make shadows across the floor!

The lilies are blooming,
The lilies are white,
Where his play haunts used to be;
And the sweet cherry blossoms
Blow over the bosoms
Of birds in the old roof tree.

When I hear on the hills
The shout of the storm,
In the valley the roar of the river;
I shiver and shake,
On the hearth stone warm,
As I think of his cold "forever."

His white hands are folded,
And never again,
With the song of the robin or plover,
When the Summer has come,
With her bees and her grain,
Will he play in the meadow clover.

Oh, dear little brother,
My sweet little brother,
In the palace above the sun,
Oh, pray the good angels,
The glorious evangels,
To take me--when life is done.

MY FATHER.

IN MEMORIAM, 1857.

The late George D. Prentice in speaking of this poem used the
following language: "To our minds there is nothing in all the In
Memoriam of Tennyson more beautiful than the following holy tribute
to a dead father from our young correspondent at Pleasant Grove."
The poem was first published in the "Louisville Journal" of which
Mr. Prentice was the editor.

[Transcriber's note: