ABBY ALLIN CUBTISS. Abby Allin Curtiss is the daughter of Daniel and Betsey Allin, and the young- est of four children. Her father was long a sea-captain, in the foreign trade ; his home being at Providence, Rhode Island. Resigning his profession. Captain Allin purchased and settled upon a farm, in Pomfret, Connecticut, where, September fifteenth, 1820, Abby was born. Miss AUin's earliest efforts in poetry were made in 1846. A pathetic ballad, "Take me Home to Die," her first piece, was published in NeaVs Gazette. In 1850, James Monroe &, Company, Boston, Massachusetts, published a volume of her poems, entitled "Home Ballads," which met with a pleasant reception, and enjoyed a full average popularity of young authors, with the literary public. In September, 1852, Miss Allin was married to Daniel S. Curtiss, Farmer-Editor, then of Chicago, Illinois, and soon after removed with him to Madison, Wisconsin — where they engaged in agricultural pursuits — which is their present place of residence. THE HEART'S CONFLICT. There is no coldness in my heart to thee- Thy presence thrills Me with an added sense of ecstacy ; I would be still. And mutely sit thus at thy side — Aye, at thy feet ; And upward gaze Into thy deep, mysterious eyes, Whose softened rays — Of pity, sooth, or tenderness — Have power to bless ! Exalted by my love's excess, It is most meet. That at thy feet. Clad in sweet love's humblest guise, I thus should sit. And watch thine eyes Their life emit ; Whose rays, dropped down. Fall on me like a crown ! ( Aye, lay thy hand upon my head, And gather me to thy heart; I would no longer be alone — From thee a thing apart : On this poor earth a pilgrim lone. From whom all love hath passed and gone! Love ? aye, life — for love is life ! What a poor, petty, causeless strife — Of words, we gather — Of forms, the rather — Thus manacling a free-born thing ; For love is life, and life a spring I The world! What is it? Let it pass ; Like the dead image on the glass — Like the spent shadows on the grass — The mastery is thine own ! Sweet, press thy lips again to mine, I am thine. And thine alone ! 440 )
