In 1841 “Pocahontas and Other Poems” was issued by a New York publisher. Pocahontas is one of her longest and most successful productions, containing fifty-six stanzas of nine lines each, opening with a picture of the vague and shadowy repose of nature as her imagination conceived it in the condition of the new world prior to its discovery. The landing at Jamestown and the subsequent events that go to make up the thrilling story of Pocahontas follow in detail. This is said to be the best of the many poetical compositions of which the famous daughter of Powhatan has been the subject. In 1840 Mrs. Sigourney made a tour of Europe, and on her return in 1842 published a volume of recollections in prose and poetry of famous and picturesque scenes and hospitalities received. The title of the book was “Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands.” During her stay in Europe there were also published two volumes of her works in London, and tokens of kindness and esteem greeted the author from various distinguished sources. Among others was a splendid diamond bracelet from the Queen of France. Other volumes of her works appeared in 1846 and 1848. Prominent among the last works of her life was “The Faded Hope,” a touching and beautiful memento of her severe ♦bereavement in the death of her only son, which occurred in 1850. “Past Meridian” is also a graceful volume of prose sketches. ♦ ‘bereavment’ replaced with ‘bereavement’ Mrs. Sigourney died at Hartford, Connecticut, June 10, 1865, when seventy-three years of age. * * * * * COLUMBUS. ST. STEPHEN’S cloistered hall was proud In learning’s pomp that day, For there a robed and stately crowd Pressed on in long array. A mariner with simple chart Confronts that conclave high, While strong ambition stirs his heart, And burning thoughts of wonder part From lips and sparkling eye. What hath he said? With frowning face, In whispered tones they speak, And lines upon their tablets trace, Which flush each ashen cheek; The Inquisition’s mystic doom Sits on their brows severe, And bursting forth in visioned gloom, Sad heresy from burning tomb Groans on the startled ear. Courage, thou Genoese! Old Time Thy splendid dream shall crown, Yon Western Hemisphere sublime, Where unshorn forests frown, The awful Andes’ cloud-wrapt brow, The Indian hunter’s bow, Bold streams untamed by helm or prow, And rocks of gold and diamonds, thou To thankless Spain shalt show. Courage, World-finder! Thou hast need! In Fates’ unfolding scroll, Dark woes, and ingrate wrongs I read, That rack the noble soul. On! on! Creation’s secrets probe, Then drink thy cup of scorn, And wrapped in Cæsar’s robe, Sleep like that master of the globe, All glorious,――yet forlorn.