Maria James was a poor servant, the child of an emigrant from Wales. An unlettered poet, she drew her only instruction from the Bible, the Pilgrim's Progress, and Miss Hannah More, a kind of Madame de Genlis of puritanism; and yet it was this poor girl who wrote the most perfect lyric, the neatest, and in a literary view, the best composed, that we find in the collection; the lyrical pieces, by the way, are not generally well written. The thoughts are indefinite, the images confounded, and in some way run in upon each other. The principal sentiment is seldom neatly distinguished. These lyrics are as the buzzing of bees, or rather as honey scarcely formed, of which each drop contains the perfume of the flower whence it was extracted. Here is a piece by Maria James, which we do not give as her best, but which overflows with a profound religious feeling, and turns the heart of the reader, for a moment, to the haven of eternal repose: THE PILGRIMS: TO A LADY. We met as pilgrims meet, Who are bound to a distant shrine, Who spend the hours in converse sweet From noon to the day's decline-- Soul mingling with soul, as they tell of their fears And their hopes, as they passed through the valley of tears. And still they commune with delight, Of pleasures or toils by the way, The winds of the desert that chill them by night, Or heat that oppresses by day: For one to the faithful is ever at hand, As the shade of a rock in a weary land. We met as soldiers meet, Ere yet the fight is won-- Ere joyful at their captain's feet Is laid their armor down: Each strengthens his fellow to do and to bear, In hope of the crown which the victors wear. Though daily the strife they renew, And their foe his thousands o'ercome, Yet the promise unfailing is ever in view Of safety, protection, and home: Where they knew that their sov'reign such favor conferred, "As eye hath not seen, as the ear hath not heard." We met as seamen meet, On ocean's watery plain, Where billows rise and tempests beat, Ere the destined port they gain: But tempests they baffle, and billows they brave, Assured that their pilot is mighty to save. They dwell on the scenes which have past, Of perils they still may endure-- The haven of rest, where they anchor at last, Where bliss is complete and secure-- Till its towers and spires arise from afar, To the eye of faith as some radiant star. We met as brethren meet, Who are cast on a foreign strand, Whose hearts are cheered as they hasten to greet And commune of their native land-- Of their father's house in that world above, Of his tender care and his boundless love.