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EMILY E. JUSDON.

Every one who has been at all conversant with American magazine literature, during the last four or five years, is acquainted with the name of Fanny Forester; and every one who loves truth, nature, and simplicity, hails it as the name of a friend. It was in June, 1844, that Miss Emily Chubbock first signed herself by this pleasant nom de plume, under an article written for the New Mirror, then recently established by Morris and Willis. Before this her talents had never been recognized by the literary world; though she had quietly employed her pen in writing many little works of a religious character, and had also at an early age been a contributor to Knickerbocker Magazine. She is a native of central New York, received a superior education, and filled the office of a teacher in the female seminary at Utica for many years. In 1847 she was married to the Rev. Mr. Judson, and accompanied him on his return to India, the field of his missionary labours. On the eve of her departure from her native land, her various sketches, essays, and poems, were collected and published in a volume, under the title of Alderbrook. Her vivid and glowing pictures of natural scenery, her graphic and artless manner of describing country life, and the pure bright spirit of love and joy that shines upon all she touches, have made her prose writing universally admired. As a poetess she has not so much talent, though occasionally, as in the following lines, she displays great beauty and tenderness. They were written at Maulmain, in January, 1848.

MY BIRD.

Ere last year's moon had left the sky,
A birdling sought my Indian nest,
And folded, oh! so lovingly!
Her tiny wings upon my breast.

From morn till evening's purple tinge,
In winsome helplessness she lies;
Two rose-leaves, with a silken fringe,
Shut softly on her starry eyes.
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EMILY E. JUDSON. 447

There's not in Ind a lovelier bird;
Broad earth owns not a happier nest;
O God, thou hast a fountain stirr'd,
Whose water never more shall rest.

This beautiful, mysterious thing,
This seeming visitant from Heaven,
This bird with the immortal wing,
To me — to me, thy hand has given.

The pulse first caught its tiny stroke,
The blood its crimson hue from mine;—
This life, which I have dared invoke,
Henceforth is parallel with thine.

A silent awe is in my room—
I tremble with delicious fear;
The future, with its light and gloom,
Time and Eternity are here.

Doubts — hopes, in eager tumult rise;
Hear, O my God! one earnest prayer:—
Room for my bird in Paradise,
And give her angel plumage there!

MY MOTHER.

Give me my old seat, mother,
With my head upon thy knee;
I've pass'd through many a changing scene
Since thus I sat by thee.
Oh! let me look into thine eyes—
Their meek, soft, loving light
Falls, like a gleam of holiness,
Upon my heart to-night.

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