The Caledonian. [volume] (St. Johnsbury, Vt.) 1837-1867, 1839-01-01

Post, is highly interesting and worthy OF attention.
The death of this charming little girl, connected
with her character, talents, and imaginative iacn'-
ties gave her life, well her death, peculiar
charm. AS was said Of her lamented sister H.
cRETIA by one ofthe most acute and able cr''cs IN
Europe so it may be said of the deceased; "sle was
an earthly angel"
The developemonts of such and exquisite
qualities in one so young is certainly precoclous;
but admitting il be so, il is still true, and 1t is
marvellous to discover so much of an elevated mind
and chaste judgment at any age.
Among The deaths mentioned in the journals, is
that of Nj ISIS Margaret Miller Davidson, which took
place at Saratoga Springs, in the 10Th year Of her
age She was The sister of Lucrelia NJ. Davidson,
whose literary remains have been published, and
were deemed so extraordinary that one of the most
eminent authors Of the age thought them worthy
Of notice from his pen in the Quarterly Review.
Margaret, the youngest sister, whose death has re-
Gently occurred was, if possible, extraord.
nary person than The eldest poetess, Her intellec
tual mowers show indications Of astonishing strength
and maturity, at an age when she scarcely out
of her infancy. When she was but five years old
she learned to write of her own accord, and in
cret, bv copying the printed characters in books,
and the first use she made of art commit to
paper the verses which she even then composed
She observed, however, the greatest reserve in re-
gard 10 her writings, and it was only by accident
that her mother, in discovering little hoard of her
literary treasures, found that she had learned TO
WRITE and at the tender age had already become
an author. The following lines written at
the age of nine years. We question whether the
annals oflitcrary composition show any thing
produced at that age, equal to them in merit, in
proprieiy and beauty of thought, versifcation and
command OF language.
HOME.
j would fly from the city, would fly from its care,
To my own native plant and myIfowrets so fair,
To the cool grassy shade and the rivulet bright,
Which reflects the pale moon in its bosom of
light
Again would view the old cottage so dear,
Where sported babe without sorrow or tear
would leave this great city, so brilliant and gay,
For peep at my home on this fair summer day,
1 have friends whom l love, and would leave with
regret
But the love of my home, oh lis tenderer yet.
There a sister reposes unconscious in death,
Twas there she first drew, and there yielded her
breath;
A father love is away from me now,
Oh could but print sweet kiss on his brow,
Or smooth the grey locks TO my fond heart dear,
How quickly would vanish each trace of a tear,
Attentive to listen to pleasure gay call,
But my native home-jt is dearer than all.
Her moral faculties were unfolded with the same
prematurity as her intellectual. She is described
to us one ofmost conscientious and right min
ded and affeotionate of human beings, OVERLOOKING
with the kindest and most generous sympathes.
shade If m lnnc hOI al
ed to rest upon the mind, as if presentment other
early fate was continually present. Her bodily and
nervous organization extremely delicate A
train of fine music produced upon her the most
remarkable effect; il made her tremble and weep,
and sometimes seemed almost to stop the circula
ton in her veins. She died of the consumption
carly, and it seemed, fully rpened, both in her
moral and intellectual nature, for the stage Of
our being that W orld of subtler essences, larger
knowledge and deeper emotions.
The following is the last thing she wrote. 1t is
addressed to her mother, and to have been
composed in the prospect Of approaching dissou
ton.
Oh mother, would the power were mino
To wake that strain thou low st to hear,
And breathe each trembling born thought
Within thy fondy listening ear,
AS when in days of health and gIee,
My hopes and fancies wandered free.
But mother now a shade hath passed.
Athwart my brightest visions here,
A cloud of darkest gloom hath wrapt
The remnant of my brief career!
No song no echo can win,
The sparkling fount hath dried within.
The torch Of earthly hope burns dim,
And fancy spreads her wings moro,
And oh, how vain and trivial seem
The pleasures that priced before;
My SOUL with trembling steps and slow,
Is struggling on through doubt and strife;
Oh, may it prove, time rolls on,
The pathway to eternal lfe
Then, when my cares and fears Ger,
III sing thee in days Of yore.''
said that hope had passed from earth,
Twas but to fold her wings in heaven,
To whisper OF the souls new birth,
OF sinners saved and sins forgiven