The longest, most elaborate, and perhaps best of her poems, is that which gives the principal title to the volume. _Amir Khan_ is a simple oriental tale, written in her sixteenth year, and is worked up with surprising power of imagery for one so young. The most fastidious and critical reader could not fail to be struck with its resemblance to the gorgeous magnificence of Lalla Rookh; a resemblance, to be sure, which no more implies equality of merit than does the brilliancy of the mock diamond establish its value with that of the real gem. We give the opening passage from the poem as a fair specimen of the rest, and from which the reader may form a correct opinion of the style and composition. "Brightly o'er spire, and dome, and tower, The pale moon shone at midnight hour, While all beneath her smile of light Was resting there in calm delight; Evening with robe of stars appears, Bright as repentant Peri's tears, And o'er her turban's fleecy fold Night's crescent streamed its rays of gold, While every chrystal cloud of heaven, Bowed as it passed the queen of even. Beneath--calm Cashmere's lovely vale Breathed perfumes to the sighing gale; The amaranth and tuberose, Convolvulus in deep repose, Bent to each breeze which swept their bed, Or scarcely kissed the dew and fled; The bulbul, with his lay of love; Sang mid the stillness of the grove; The gulnare blushed a deeper hue, And trembling shed a shower of dew, Which perfumed e'er it kiss'd the ground, Each zephyr's pinion hovering round. The lofty plane-tree's haughty brow Glitter'd beneath the moon's pale glow; And wide the plantain's arms were spread, The guardian of its native bed." We venture to assert that if Thomas Moore had written Amir Khan at the age of sixteen, there are thousands by whom it would be read and admired who would hardly condescend to open Miss Davidson's volume; and that too, without being able to assign any other or better reason than that Moore is a distinguished and popular British bard, whereas the other was an obscure country girl, who lived and died in the state of New York. The lines to the memory of Henry Kirk White, which were composed at thirteen, are much superior to many elegiac stanzas written by poets of some reputation at twenty-five or thirty. Of all her minor pieces however, those which were written at fifteen seem to us to possess the greatest merit, if we except the _Coquette_, a very spirited production in imitation of the Scottish dialect, composed in her fourteenth year. The following are the two first stanzas: "I hae nae sleep, I hae nae rest, My Ellen's lost for aye; My heart is sair and much distressed, I surely soon must die. I canna think o' wark at a', My eyes still wander far, _I see her neck like driven snaw, I see her flaxen hair._"