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218      EMMA C. EMBURY

The storms of nature pass, and soon no trace
Is left to mark their ravage - but long years
Pass lingeringly onward, nor efface
The deep-cut channel of our burning tears,
Or aching scars, the wasting sorrow sears
Upon the breast: lo! even now, a gleam
Of moonlight through the broken clouds appears,
To bless the earth again. I fain would dream,
It was a smile of thine, to bless me with its beam.

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EMMA C. EMBURY.

This gifted lady was born in New York, where her father, Dr. Manly, has been practising as a physician many years. She was married when quite young to Mr. Embury, a gentleman of wealth and education, who himself possesses no small claim to distinction, for his superior talents, and high intellectual attainments. He is considered one of the first mathematicians in the country. Mrs. Embury wrote far the various periodicals at an early age, under the name of Ianthe; and in the year 1828, these contributions, with many other pieces, were collected into a volume, called Guido and other Poems. Her juvenile productions, however, although in their versification remarkably flowing and sweet, are not to be compared with her after works, which are written with great freshness and vigour, and display as much sound sense as tender sentiment.

In the course of a few years Mrs. Embury became very popular as a prose-writer; published a work on Female Education; after that, Constance Latimer, the Blind Girl; and several tales of much beauty, and moral excellence. A little book, Love's Token Flowers, appeared in 1845, which, she says in the short preface prefixed to it, "differs from other works of floral sentiment, inasmuch as it is not a compilation, but a collection of original poems;" adding, "though they are perhaps but little worthy of appropriation, yet they have value which the simple


EMMA C. EMBURY.          219

philosophy of Touchstone recognises, a poor thing, sir, but my own." This modest little book contains many of the most exquisite songs that were ever written, the pure melodious accents of music-making love; and a few larger poems, more serious, but not less sweet. Mrs. Embury has recently written a prose work called Glimpses of Home Life, which well sustains the reputation which has so long been hers, as one of the most useful and attractive of American authoresses.

Mrs. Embury resides at Brooklyn, where she has lived ever since her marriage. Her many home-bred virtues and capabilities, her well-ordered household, and the happiness, harmony, and content which reign there, prove a delightful contradiction to the vulgar idea, that women of genius cannot be women of domestic worth. But it is certainly true, as a noble writer of great penetration (Hannah More) affirms, that "those women who are so puffed up with the conceit of talents, as to neglect the plain duties of life, will not often be found to be women of the best abilities." No employment of native genius, however lofty and honourable in itself considered, no exertion after the applause, the gratification, or even the improvement of the public, can absolve a wife and mother from her highest, holiest obligation——to make home happy.

"THE NIGHT COMETH."

Ye, who in the field of human life
Quickening seeds of wisdom fain would sow,
Pause not for the angry tempest's strife,
Shrink not from the noontide's fervid glow --
Labour on, while yet the light of day
Sheds abroad its pure and blessed ray,
For the Night commeth!

Ye, who at man's mightiest engine stand
Moulding noble thought into opinion,
Oh, stay not, for weariness, your hand,
Till ye fic the bounds of truth's dominion;
Labour on, while yet the light of day
Sheds upon your toil its blessed ray,
For the Night cometh!

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