D. BETHUNE DUFFIELD. D. Bethune Duffield, son of Rev. George Duffield, D.D., and Isabella Gra- ham DufReld, was born in Carlisle, Cumberland county, Pennsylvania, in 1821, where he resided with his parents until their removal to Philadelphia. He remained at school in Philadelphia until 1836, when he entered Yale College. In 1842 he gradu- ated at the Yale Law School, and was admitted to the bar at Detroit, Michigan, in 1843. In that city he has since continued in active practice. During the greater part of the last twelve years he has been prominently engaged on behalf of the free schools of Detroit, and has latterly served as the President of the Board of Educa- tion for that city. In addition to the labor of a large practice he is frequently called upon as a lecturer and writer, and as such, maintains an enviable rank among the young men of his State. His character as a man of integrity and as a Christian gentleman, is without re- proach, and in all the various relations of life he seeks the honest discharge of such duties as are devolved on him by Providence. His poems are evidently anore the result of spontaneous expression than elaborate labor, but although rapidly prepared, evince a degree of poetical talent which prom- ises prominence among the writers of the North-west, if not of a still wider sphere. THE MAID OF CHAMOUNI. At Chamouni I kissed a maid, A shepherdess was she. And not a single word she said. But high she tossed her graceful head, And sternly frowned on me. That she was pure, though low in rank. No one could fail to see. Pure as the wreath of old Mont Blanc, Whose shadow, when the sun has sank, Enshrouds all Chamouni. I told her, I had longed to taste The dews of Chamouni, And the first flower that I had faced. Whose petal lips those dews had graced. Was she, and only she. Then spake the maid with scornful air, " You live beyond the sea. But know this rule of every where, ' The thorns grow where the roses are,' Holds good in Chamouni." 'Twas all she said, then waved her hand And parted company — Yet still, I could not help but stand And watch her and her tinkling band, Till shadows from Mont Blanc had spanned The vale of Chamouni. (428)
