“And glimmering beach, and plover’s flight, And that long surge that rolls Through bands of green and purple light, Are fairer to our human sight Because of human souls.” Again, in “Golden-Rod:”-- “The swinging harebell faintly tolled Upon the still autumnal air, The golden-rod bent down to hold Her rows of funeral torches there.” And in “My Mountain:”-- “I shut my eyes in the snow-fall, And dream a dream of the hills; The sweep of a host of mountains, The flash of a hundred rills.” Together with the music, there is strength in her verses, when she attempts to deal with subjects that call for vigorous treatment. In the “Rose Enthroned,” there is a strong grasping at the origin of things, and powerful descriptions of the primeval birth-throes that, from the war of elements, issued forth in the fairness of creation. “Built by the warring elements they rise, The massive earth-foundations, tier on tier, Where slimy monsters with unhuman eyes Their hideous heads uprear.” In her mountain descriptions there is the same power. The wind-beaten and thunder-scarred summit of Whiteface presents itself to her as the visage of a monarch, who seems to rule the race of giant hills. The effect of a mountain whose slopes plunge into the sea is graphically given in the phrase, “Plunged knee-deep in yon glistening sea.” Her appreciation for beautiful details of nature, that seemed to escape the common observer, is seen in her similes and epithets; the little streams winding through the marshes are called “sea-fed creeks;” the mists that rise in the evening, reflecting the light of the descending sun, are “violet mists;” the quiet of the fields of clover, when one is out of sound of the waves, are fitly called “sweet inland silences;” the heart of the woods, where are the shadows, has its “forest crypts;” and there are “mosaics of tinted moss.” Dr. Holmes very well describes her when he says: “She was as true a product of our Essex County soil as the bayberry; and her nature had the chaste and sweet fragrance of its fair and wholesome leaves. She was a true poetess, and a noble woman.” Her writings have the genuine flavor of the soil, like the perfume of the woods, or the salt spray that bathes one’s face along the seashore. Mr. Whittier thus analyzed her powers as a poet: “She holds in rare combination the healthfulness of simple truth and common sense, with the fine and delicate fancy, and an artist’s perception of all beauty.” Mr. Stedman, in his “Poets of America,” speaks of her as a sweet-voiced singer of “orchard notes.” This is a good partial description of certain of her songs, but as an estimate of her poetical ability it is very limited. She was not disturbed by the criticism, but wrote thus to a friend. TO MRS. S. I. SPALDING. 4 HOTEL BYRON, BERKELEY STREET, BOSTON, March 8, 1886.