New-York daily tribune. [volume] (New-York [N.Y.]) 1842-1866, 1844-07-20
THE TRIBU N E.
LYDIA JANE PERSON.

natural abilities. Her 1ather, VINO was IneCndiiS
IN comfortable circumstances, was himself man
of some talent, and, taking PRIDE in his daughter S
intellect he stroye to cultivate II to the utmost oy
education. Snc acquired knowledge oil all the
nsetul studies then taught to girls; besides learn
inc need!ework, drawing and painting, OF which
last she was particularly fond. She also devoted
norton OF her leisure TO the cultivation OF mu-
SIC. and soon became performer on the piano and
VOL She even began the study OF Latin, IN which
she made some little progress.
When she had attained her seventeenth year,
her father removed to the vicinity Of Canandagua,
New.York, then comparatively a wild district
Here she remained until her marriage; circum-
stance that took place in her eighteenth year.-
She then removed to Toga County, Pennsylva.
MA in the ,ery heart of the wilderness there be.
inc. at first, no neighbor within five miles. In
this place she has since continued to reside. Her
life has been chcckered with sorrows above those
usually allotted to her sex but she has borne up
AGAINST all with fortitude and resignation. The
cl.ims OF a large family, and the unavoidable prl-
vs,ons of border life, have left her comparative
" few of the opportunities enjoyed by her sister
poets, TO achieve distinction in song though the
high rank she takes is, in consequence, the more
deserving.
hnlIe StHi Clliu SiiC pcpol W Wiite NtlStS.
which she sang to wild airs of her own compos-
ing. But for many years the gift was exercised
only for her own solace, or the qualification Of her
friends. At length, about 1927, travelling
preacher obtained copies of several of her poems
which he caused TO be published They attract
ed attention, and her contributions were solicited
by various newspapers. Her fame spread, and
finally she began to write for "The Southern
Literary Messenger" This introduced her, at
once, 10 the notice Of our Eastern critics, whose
fat is decisive, but where hitherto she had been
almost unknown. The consequence was an ap.
probation of her many high qualities as a poet
BY those best calculated to juoge; and reputa-
ton that has suffered no diminution by the test
Of years.
Her poems do not seem to be the result of cX-
cessive labor, like those of Mr.. Longfeow, which
are shaped and polished by thousand nice
touches on the contrary she appears TO write on
the spur of the moment, and many of her pieces
evince haste that is to be regretted From a let
ter now lying before us, we learn that she has
often stolen out into the woods to compose verses,
using the trunk of a fallen tree for writing desk.
Burns, it will be remembered, made his best poems
walking by the riverside; and the circumstances
in which "To Mary IN Heaven" originated, must
be familiar to our readers.
We have said that the poems of Mrs. Pcirson
seem as ifwrltten on the spur of the moment. To
this fact, that they come glowing from the heart,
much Of their power and originality is to be traced.
They are not destitute of imagination, and that
often of the highest kind but the fancy is only
called in to aid the thought, and not to supply its
place. Her poems are not fantastic creations, in
which briliiancy is substituted for depth but
earnest and often melancholy outbreakngs Of
heart, gifted alike with the warmest emotions and
the genius to express them eloquently. Our hand
has Just lighted on one of her earlier productions
which forcibly illustrates this characteristic. 1t is
entitled The White Rose We give the con-
Guiding Six stansas.
ooh this is rot my native land,
Nor thou my own white bossom'd tree;
Nor was il that dear gentle hand,
mothers hand, that planted thee.
When forsook my native halls,
Where weeping memory fingers get;
Thv blossoms clustered round the walls,
With morning purest dew. drops wet.
And that sweet friend, so young and fair,
That chung TO me with grief opprest;
Had thy white blossoms IN her hair,
And on her purer whittier breast.
Since then I've been condemned to roam,
And weep along the worlds black lea
| never found second home
friend like her, rose like thee
When the strong spirit writhes and burns,
And the weak heart o'eiilows with tears,
How promptly keen-eyed memory turns,
Toward the home Of early years.
There cinging round its first fond loves,
And weeping DER its careless hours.
Thro' halls and groves, and fields t,oves,
And fingers with lis iavorite flowers
This might, in some of the verses, be improved
in expression, but the earnest sadness which per-
vades it could not be more eloquent In the
same strain are the following stanzas, taken
from a poem, (also an early one on the Wild
Jessamine.
"Those sisters, young and fair,
Who climbed with me the hight
And twined amid their hair
Thy blossoms, sweet and bright,
Warm, innocent and true
Were all our Young hearts then
The eorid has touched them now
They cannot bloom again.
But when CHARGE to meet
By mountain, STREAM or grove,
Some blossom. wild and sweet,
That we were wont TO love
II wakens all the dreams
unsuspecting Years;
And lies youn, rGiRbetc CLEANS
A moment through her tears
These poems bctray the writer's mind better
than any thing we could say. There is one more,
Of similar character, before US, with which we
shall close this part OF the subjcc. A friend
writing to Mrs Person used these words, " Sing
on, you will win the wreath Of lame; if not in
life, it will bloom gloriousIy over your tomb
She soon after composed the following poem:
"''ris not for fame. know may not win
wreath from high Parnassus, Tor my name
Is written on The puge OF humble life,
From which The awarderS oil tie laurel crown
Avert their eyes with scoring. have fell
The nildew Of afilicton-the East wind
vi wi,hering mpt-ihe peling storms
Ofcare, and toll, and poverty, and woe,
In almost every form. too have known
The darkness OF bereavement; and keen pangs
Which woman may not utter, though her heart
Consume amid their f-rceDess, and her brain
Burn 10 a living cinder-ihough The wound
Which is SO hard 10 bear, lie fostering deep
Within her outraged spift-though her signs
Disturb the quiet o. the blessed night, breast
Whose sweet d.ws cool and south the ieveIcd
VI every other mourner-,hough she pour
The food o. life sweet fountain out IN tears