ELEANOR PEUCY LEE. Eleanor Percy Ware, sister of Catherine A. Warfield, the subject of the pre- ceding biographic notice, was born at Natchez, on the Mississippi river, about the year 1820. She was educated at Philadelphia with her sister, and then for several yeai's resided at Cincinnati. In the volume of poems by " Two Sisters of the West," published at New York, in 1843, were two or three pieces from her pen which have been much admired and widely circulated. To the "Indian Chamber and other Poems," published at Cincinnati, in 1846, she contributed "The Stormy-Petrel," " The Natchez Light-House," " The Sun-Struck Eagle," and several lighter poems, which are characterized by pecuhar gracefulness of thought and sprightliness of versification. Miss Ware was married at Cincinnati to H.W.Lee, of Vicksburg, Mississippi. She died in Natchez, when about thirty years of age. TO THE STORMY-PETREL. I've marked thee through the livelong day, Lone wanderer on the ocean's breast ; I've seen in sunshine stretched away, That wing that never stoops to rest. They tell me, o'er the waters wide. Thy pinions still forever move, Where'er may sweep the ocean tide, Where'er the ocean wind may rove. The crested wave leaps high before, The wild breeze gathereth strength be- hind ; Thy form above the waves will soar. Thy wing outstrips the ocean wind. Each plume that waves above the deep Fhes landward from the swelling breeze, Save thine ! whose fate is still to sweep Forever o'er the stormiest seas ! Is there no terror on thee shed. No fear within thy quivering form. When thy wild rufiled wing is spread Forth, on the bosom of the storm ? When o'er the waves the lightnings flash, And many a gallant bark is riven ; And solemnly the thunder's crash Pealg from the darkened face of heaven? The mariner's cold cheek is pale, The locks upon his brow are wet ; He curbs the helm, he furls the sail In vain ! — the storm is mightier yet. The sailor's wife shall strain to-night, Her gaze across the foaming brine ; No form shall greet her aching sight. No voice be heai'd mid waves, but thine. Tell her (if speech be thine, dark bird). Tell her, you watched him to the last ; Tell her you caught his latest word. When clinging to the broken mast ; Tell her, how peacefully the wave Above the cherished head shall sweep ; Tell her, thou only know'st his grave — Oh, Stormy-Peti-el of the deep ! And thou, hast thou no binding ties To curb thy flight with silken chain ? ( 325 )
