Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/362

 346 ALICE GARY. [1840-50. great bulk of what I have written is poor stuff. Some of it, it may be, indicates abil- ity to do better — that is about all. The public has given me more encouragement than I have had reason to expect. Notwithstanding my dissatisfaction with what I have done, I have still faith and hope in myself. I am not discouraged nor disheart- ened a whit ; and, in my own estimation at least, I grow a little from year to year. Not that every thing is better this year than some things were last. I report myself — my observations and reflections more, books and their suggestions less. This is more especially true of my verse. In my prose I seldom ventured ofl" my native soil, even in my earlier efforts. I think I am more simple and dii-ect — less diffuse and encum- bered with ornament than in former years — all probably because I have lived longer and thought more." We give this personal expression because it seems to us, in its latter position, a very happy and appropriate characterization ; while its denial of merit, in its first position, is an unconscious admission of her unassuming nature and betokens the almost entire absence, in her disposition, of that egotism which renders some of our present race of poets often unpleasant as companions and correspondents. Miss Gary is simple in her tastes, unostentatious in her style of living, confiding in her disposition, hearty in her appreciation of goodness, charitable in her judgments to a remarkable degree, hopeful in faith, agreeable as a companion, disposed to constant deeds of charity, prac- ticing self-denial as a piivilege, and living the life of a pure, truly Christian Avoman. BALLAD OF JESSIE CAROL. At her window, Jessie Carol, As the twilight dew distils. Pushes back her heavy tresses, Listening toward the northern hills. "I am happy, very happy, None so much as I am blest ; None of all the many maidens In the valley of the West," Softly to herself she whispered ; Paused she then again to hear If the step of Allen Archer, That she waited for, were near. "Ah, he knows I love him fondly ! — I have never told him so ! — Heart of mine be not so heavy. He will come to-night, I know." Brightly is the full moon filling All the withered woods with light, "He has not forgotten surely — It was later yesternight ! " Shadows interlock with shadows — Says the maiden, "Woe is me!" In the blue the eve-star trembles Like a lily in the sea. Yet a good hour later sounded, — But the northern woodlands sway — Quick a white hand from her casement Thrust the heavy vines away. Like the Avings of restless swallows That a moment brush the dew. And again are up and upward, Till we lose them in the blue. Were the thoughts of Jessie Carol, — For a moment dim with pain, Then with pleasant waves of sunshine. On the hills of hope again. .«^^