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402   THE SISTERS OF THE WEST.

With the innocence only to guard thee from ill, 
In life's sunny dawning, a lily-bud still!
Laugh on! my own Ellen! that voice, which to me
Gives a warning so solemn, makes music for thee;
And while I at those sounds feel the idler's annoy,
Thou hear'st but the tick of the pretty gold toy;
Thou seest but a mile on the brow of the churl,
May his frown never awe thee, my own baby-girl.
And oh! may his step, as he wanders with thee,
Light and soft at thine own little fairy-tread be!
While still in all seasons, in storms and fair weather,
May Time and my Ellen by playmates together.

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THE SISTERS OF THE WEST.

Two volumes of the joint productions of these united sisters have been given to the world: the first in 1843, called The Wife of Leon and other Poems, which was published anonymously, or with the title with which we have headed our sketch; the second in 1846, namely, The Indian Chamber and other Poems, by Mrs. Catherine Ann Warfield, and Mrs. Eleanor Percy Lee.  Of their outward life we know nothing. It commenced, we believe, at Natchez, Mississippi, and one of them, Mrs. Warfield, resides at Grasmere, near Lexington, Kentucky. That their inward life is full of poetic beauty, and of the sweet yet mournful enchantment bestowed by true sentiment and strong imagination, may be seen by all who read their poems. There is something touching and noble about their sisterly union,-the purest, holiest, most undecaying friendship their souls will ever know. We love to think upon it! Where Mrs. Lee has more original talent than Mrs. Warfield, or Mrs. Warfield writes with greater ease than Mrs. Lee, is entirely concealed by their generous affection.

THE SISTER OF THE WEST.   403

A VALLEY OF VIRGINIA

A LONG deep valley-narrow, silent, shaded
By lofty trees-the young, the old, the seer;
It lies where footstep seldom has invaded
The haunts and coverts of the graceful deer.
The silver sound of a small fountain, springing 
From the green bosom of the shaded earth,
With its blithe, mellow and eternal singing,
Is there the only voice that tells of mirth.

For all the day the ringdove's note complaining,
Fills with its murmurs sad the dusky air;
And when the twilight solemnly is waning,
The sullen owl shrieks wildly, harshly there.
The young fawn starts, as o'er the fountain bending
To quaff the water sparkling to the brim,
He hears the savage cadence, far ascending
Through the still evening air and forest dim.

The grass is full of wild flowers, and they render
A fragrance, strangely delicate and fine,
And the young cedars, tall, erect and slender,
Grow wreathed around with many a clinging vine.
The purple clusters, 'mid the shadows falling,
Invite the bird to leave his leafy hall,
And, in low melodies, you hear him calling
His brooding mate to share his festival.

Vale of Virginia! oft my spirit turneth
From crowded cities to they deep repose;
And with a sick and weary aching, yearneth
To bear unto thy gloom its weight of woes,
And dwell within thy shadows; there repelling
All worldly forms, all vanities of earth,

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---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 20:19:19