478 MARY E. NEALY. [l.S,50-G0. radiance of her soul, while softened, is multiplied and rendered "more exquisite still" by the light and shadowy vail which early grief has drawn over it. Mrs. Nealy was deterred from publishing any thing during her youth, and for sev- eral years after her marriage, by excessive distrust of her o^^n abilities, and an undue fear of the censure of the literary world. Her diffidence may in part at least be at- tributed to her lonely childhood, and in part, no doubt, to her sense of the defective- ness of her early education. To these more than to any feeling of natural inability or inferiority, may be referred her studious avoidance of the public applause or censure likely to follow the first appearance of a young author. Her poems, always written in haste, and under circumstances utterly at war with all our notions of study and reflection — in the midst of the labors and cares and per- plexities of her domestic aiFairs, were received with very general favor ; and she was soon heard and recognized by the literary world as worthy of an association with the gifted children of song. The Louisville Journal, the Southern Literary Messenger, the Southern Lady's Book, Godey's Lady's Book, Scott's Weekly, and other journals, re- ceived and welcomed the new poet to their columns ; and were in turn enriched and made better worthy of public regard by the contributions of her mind. Through these channels "The Little Shoe" and other poems found their way into the British papers. It is not saying too much, to affirm that they are worthy of all the consider- ation they have received. THE LITTLE SHOE. I FOUND it here — a worn-out shoe. All mildew'd with time and wet with dew ; 'Tis a little thing ; — ye who pass it by. With never a thought, or word, or sigh ; Yet it stirs in my spirit a hidden well. And in eloquent tones of the past doth tell. It tells of a little fairy form That bound my heart with a magic charm. Of bright blue eyes and golden hair, That ever shed joy and sunlight there — Of a prattling voice so sweet and clear. And of tiny feet that were ever near. It tells of hopes that with her had birth, Deep buried now in the silent earth ; Of a heart that had met an answering tone Which ajrain is left alone — alone! Of days of watching and anxious prayer, — Of a night of sorrow and dark despair. It tells of a form that is cold and still — Of a little mound upon yonder hill, That is dearer far, to a mother's heart. Than the classic statues of Grecian art, All ! strangers may pass with a careless air, Nor dream of the hopes that are buried there. Oh ye, who have never o'er loved ones wept — Wliose brightest hopes have ne'er been swept Like the pure white cloud from the morn- ing sky- Like the wreath of mist from the mountain liiffh —
