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ELIZABETH MARGARET CHANDLER.

Elizabeth Chandler was born at Centre, near Wilmington, Delaware, on the 24th of December, 1807. Her father was a respectable farmer, who had been educated liberally, and had studied medicine; but while he resided in the country devoted himself principally to agriculture. Her mother (whose maiden name was Margaret Evans) died when she was an infant; and soon after this event, the family removed to Philadelphia, where Elizabeth was placed under the care of her grandmother, attended a school established by the society of Friends, and quickly evinced her fondness for literary pursuits, and her genius for poetry.

Before she was sixteen, she had contributed many excellent articles in prose and verse, to some of the most popular magazines of the day; but her retiring habits, and determined resolution to keep back her name from the public, prevented her talents from obtaining the notice they deserved. She became a member of an Anti-Slavery Society in Philadelphia, and laboured with her pen very industriously in its behalf. In the summer of 1830, she removed with an aunt and brother to Michigan. The spot they chose for a dwelling was on the banks of the river Raisin, near the village of Tecumseh. Elizabeth gave it the name of Hazlebank, and enjoyed herself much admits its wild forest scenes, searching after Indian traditions, and gathering food for poetry and romance from their legendary lore. Here she lived four years, loving and beloved; and here she died, most deeply regretted, and was buried under "her own transplanted forest-vine" in November, 1934.

Her productions show much poetic fervour, and, at the same time, are by no means wanting in correctness, and elegance of expression.

THE BRANDYWINE.*

My foot has climb'd the rocky summit's height,
And in mute rapture, from its lofty brow,
Mine eye is gazing round me with delight,
On all of beautiful, above, below:

*A beautiful stream, flowing near the author's place of nativity.
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ELIZABETH MARGARET CHANDLER.    211

The fleecy smoke-wreath upward curling slow,
The silvery waves half hid with bowering green,
That far beneath in gentle murmurs flow,
Or onward dash in foam and sparkling sheen,
While rocks and forest-boughs hide half the distant scene.

In sooth, form this bright wilderness 't is sweet
To look through loop-holes form'd by forest-boughs,
And view the landscape far beneath the feet,
Where cultivation all its aid bestows,
And o'er the scene an added beauty throws;
The busy harvest group, the distant mill,
The quiet cattle stretch'd in calm repose,
The cot, half seen behind the sloping hill,
All mingled in one scene with most enchanting skill.

The very air that breathes around my cheek,
The summer fragrance of my native hills,
Seems with the voice of other times to speak,
And, while it each unquiet feeling stills,
My pensive soul with hallow'd memories fills:
My fathers' hall is there; their feet have press'd
The flower-gemm'd margin of these gushing rills,
When lightly on the water's dimpled breast,
Their own light bark beside the frail canoe would rest.

Oh! if there is in beautiful and fair,
A potency to charm, a power to bless;
If bright blue skies and music-breathing air,
And nature in her every varied dress
Of peaceful beauty and wild loveliness,
Can shed across the heart one sunshine ray,
Then others, too, sweet stream, with only less
Than mine own joy, shall gaze, and bear away
Some cherish'd thought of thee for many a coming day

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 10:05:36