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MARY E. LEE.

MISS LEE was one of the most graceful writers of fugitive poetry we have, and a constant and most acceptable contributor, both of prose and verse, to the best of our magazines in the north and south. She possessed a clear and pleasing style, a refined and correct taste, a well-cultivated mind, and a heart full of pure affection and warm reverence for the beautiful and good. She was a native of Charleston, South Carolina, where she resided until her death, September 19th, 1849.

THE POETS.

THE poets! the poets!
Those giants of the earth;
In mighty strength they tower above
The men of common birth;
A noble race – they mingle not
Among the motley throng,
But move, with slow and measured step,
To music-notes along!

The poets! the poets!
What conquests they can boast!
Without one drop of life-blood spilt,
They rule a world's wide host;
Their stainless banner floats unharm'd
From age to lengthen'd age;
And History records their deeds
Upon her proudest page!

The poets! the poets!
How endless is their fame!
Death, like a thin mist, comes, yet leaves
No shadow on each name;
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MARY E. LEE.   467

But as you starry gems that gleam
In evening's crystal sky,
So have they won, in mem'ry's depths,
An immortality!

The poets! the poets!
Who doth not linger o'er
The glorious volumes that contain
Their pure and spotless lore?
They charm us in the saddest hours,
Our richest joys they feed;
And love for them has grown to be
A universal creed!

The poets! the poets!
Those kingly minstrels dead,
Well may we twine a votive wreath
Around each honour'd head.
No tribute is too high to give
Those crown'd ones among men;
The poets! the true poets!
Thanks be to God for them!

HAST THOU FORGOT ME?

"Thou and I
Have mingled the fresh thoughts that early die
Once flowering - never more!"

HAST thou forgot me? Thou who hast departed
Like a glad sunbeam from my yearning sight,
Leaving the spirit worn and broken-hearted,
Where once hope built a temple of delight.
Hast thou forgot me? Thou, unto whose keeping
I gave my every thought of perfect love,
Till on my idol's shrine, all treasure heaping,
I scarcely dared to look to heaven above.

Transcription Notes:
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