N •^mmmmtttKr Q^i^O^L^^^i-^^ *h n -o ,:, \<'l) r i; a P ,,. ... 1 -■ PH 1 Lk E LPH I ,'\ I'll i . i Bl I SI I I I I THE BRITISH FEMALE POETS: BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES. »v GEO. W. BETHUNE. PHILADELPHIA: LINDSAY & BLAKISTON. 1849. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S48, by LINDSAY * RLAKISTON, in the clerk's office of the District Court of the United States for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. STEREOTYPED BY J. FAGAN. PKiNTED BY C. SHERMAN. (2) PREFACE. The following volume contains the Editor's gatherings during a leisurely excursion through a most pleasant depart- ment of English literature. The manifestation of female talent is a striking characteristic of our age, and a very inter- esting proof of its moral advancement. Clever and even learned women had appeared in the course of the last cen- tury, and a few, "far between," yet earlier; but they were, when at all successful as waiters, rather petted by the gallantry of their contemporaries because of their gentler sex, than ad- mitted to the high society of wits for their actual merits ; nor did they, scarcely one excepted, deserve greater considera- tion. The last hundred, especially the last fifty years, have demonstrated, that as there are offices necessary to the elegant perfection of society, which can be discharged only by the delicate and more sensitive faculties of woman, so her grace- ful skill can shed charms over letters, which man could never diffuse. In all pertaining to the affections, which constitute the best part of human nature, we readily confess her supe- riority ; it is, therefore, consistent with her character that the (iii) IV PREFACE. genius of woman should yield peculiar delight when its themes are love, childhood, the softer beauties of creation, the joys or sorrows of the heart, domestic life, mercy, reli- gion, and the instincts of justice. Hence her excellence in the poetry of the sensibilities. There are instances of her boldly entering the sphere of man, and asserting strong claims to share the honours of his sterner engagements ; but the Daciers, De Staels, and Hannah Mores, are variations from the rule prescribed by a wise Providence. The much-vexed question as to the superiority of male or female intellect, is one that should never be discussed, because the premises are so different that it can never be settled. As well might we compare the vine, with its curling tendrils, its broad-leaved convolutions and delicious clusters, to the oak, that is des- tined for the architrave or the storm-daring ship. The trees of the forest go down before the tempest ; the vine lives on, to cover with foliage the ruin of the shaft around which it twined. We are pained to see a woman toiling in the sun or the cold ; but what were man's labour worth, if he had no home where woman reigned in her realm of affection ? Yet within that home are trials, cares, duties and difficulties, to which only woman's tact, conscience and endurance are equal. Faith is the highest exercise of reason, hope the best practice of faith ; but charity is the greatest of the three ; and we do woman honour when we consider charity, in its widest sense, as peculiarly her attribute. The records of literature confirm this position. When few women mingled in the circle of authors, the men, however mighty their powers, were often coarse, and their female associates assimilated to the general fashion ; but now, when they meet in more equal numbers, there is a re- finement of feeling and a delicacy of expression unknown to PREFACE. V the pages of any former age. What the elevation of woman has clone for the reform of social manners, her educated mind is doing for our books. Nothing shows the superiority of women in our day to those of past centuries, more than a comparison of their writings. For this reason, specimens will be given of their verse, from the earliest known, Juliana Berners, down to the latest issues from the British press : and it will readily be seen how insignificant even " the matchless Orinda" is by the side of those least distinguished among her modern sis- ters ; nor has care been omitted to preserve something from the pens of some who derived celebrity from the mention of their names by the better authors of their day, as the Mrs. Williams of Dr. Johnson, or the Lactilla of Hannah More ; since, little merit as their productions may have, they pos- sess an interest from such accidental circumstances, and serve to show how small a portion of talent then made a wo- man remarkable. In fact, our volume aims at a higher merit than that which belongs to a mere compilation of extracts, and presents a history of female English poetry. It is painful to observe how many of the writers, sketches of whose lives are hereafter given, have been unhappy in their domestic histories. In what way shall we account for this ? Statistical analogy will not suffer a belief that Provi- dence assigns to literary women worse husbands than to those of any other class ; yet, certainly a far greater proportion of literary wives have asked our sympathy for their sorrows. Perhaps .ZEsop's moral, that " the lions have no painters," has some application here ; as we usually get but one side of the story ; and it is difficult to impeach the justice of com- plaints breathed forth in eloquent numbers. There are also, 1 A VI PREFACE. doubtless, many cases in which the unhappiness was the oc- casion of making the authoress. A happy wife and mother, cheerfully busy in her well ordered household, has little leisure and less inclination to solicit the notice of the world beyond her threshold, leaving us ignorant of " the sweet Sappho in a housewife lost.'''' Quintilian says, that the Gracchi " owed their eloquence as much as their birth to their mother ;" nor can we doubt that there is many a Cornelia in our own more fortunate times, who can point to her sons and say, "these are my books ;" for few mothers, however successful in its practice, have written upon the theory of education, while scores of unmarried ladies have elaborated tomes to prove the truth of the Scotch proverb : " Maidens' bairns are a' weel guided." Servants may be governed with kindly discretion, and family tables made elegant with savoury viands, by those who have never written essays on domestic commonwealths, like Miss Sedgwick, or a cookery book, like Miss Leslie. Besides, the harmony of married life depends very much upon a due proportion of character in the husband and the wife. A man is ordinarily satisfied with affectionate gentle- ness from his chosen partner, and, if she makes him happy, asks no more ; a woman seeks for similar kindness, but also for distinction in her husband. When, therefore, a woman of talent finds herself linked to a dull, prosaic mortal, inca- pable of appreciating the high-wrought sentiments which fan the fires of genius, and only known to the world as the one whose name she has dignified with the matronly prefix, it is not difficult to guess that her disgust will soon be manifested and provoke harshness in return, until each sighs for a quiet " dinner of herbs on the housetop." This tendency may be increased by exalted ideas of a husband's devotion, and the paradisiacal delights of wedded love, such as are seldom found except in some sun-lighted mansion of cloud. The PREFACE. Vll gates of Eden are still shut against our Eves and Adams. Dinners do not grow " spontaneous on umbrageous trees," nor flower-beds suffice for comfortable couches ; but kitchens and laundries are among the consequences of the fall. The Adam who has been toiling all day, digging the illiberal earth with the sweat on his face, is but too apt, at evening, to crave a refreshment more substantial than fruits of the imagination ; and though his Eve be a tenth muse, if she be nothing less supernatural, the chances are that they may both taste the bitter " fruit of the knowledge of evil." Poor Phillis Wheat- ley, the sable poetess of Boston, after supping with Horace at his Sabine farm, broke her heart because her brute of a husband insisted upon her learning more domestic accom- plishments ; and it is, doubtless, true, that the restlessness of genius, its impatience of steady rules, its morbid sensitive- ness, have unfitted many a literary woman in higher life for the every day and every hour exactions of home. Flattery is as necessary to an author as oil to a lamp ; and the contrast between the brilliant conversazione, when she was incensed with applauses, and the dullness of her own fireside, is a se- vere trial of her domestic virtues. Public exhibition of any kind rarely fails to impair the feminineness, which is the true cestus of woman's power over man's heart ; and it were as easy to pass through a furnace seven times heated, without harm, as through an acclaiming crowd. Some there are who have endured the ordeal and not a smell of fire lingered on their garments ; but an angel was with them in the flames. These remarks are not made in a spirit of unfeeling censure toward those gifted women, whose trials of heart have been made sadly illustrious by their talent ; not a few of whom de- serve, as they receive, unqualified sympathy ; but it is hardly fair to make their remarkable experience, in every case, the fault only of their husbands. At least we may suspect some PREFACE. of them of imprudence in their choice, or of mismanagement afterwards. It is certainly remarkable on the other hand, that, when literary women have been united to men of similar tastes (as the everlasting Duchess of Newcastle, delightful Mary Howitt, who calls her husband " my literary associate for more than a quarter of a century, and my best friend," and she, who changed a name which thousands had loved her by, to be the gentle nurse of Southey's declining years), their intellectual pursuits only served to enhance the charms of their homes. Habits of authorship cannot in themselves be unfavourable to w T omen's healthfulness of body or mind, as the extreme old age which many of them, especially those who have been unmarried or a long time widows, show ; for example, Miss Carter, Mrs. Grant, Hannah More, the " octogenarian" co- quette, Mrs. Piozzi, who passed the mortal limit of fourscore ; Miss Edgew r orth, Miss Porter, and Joanna Baillie, who yet live. The moral of the w T hole is, that genius is not necessa- rily incompatible with a woman's happiness, particularly if it be governed by common sense. The prominent fault of female poetical writers is an unwil- lingness to apply the pruning-knife and the pumice-stone. They write from impulse, and rapidly as they think. The strange faculty, which women have, of reaching conclusions (and, in the main, safe conclusions) without the slow process of reasoning through w-hich men have to pass ; the strong moral instincts with which their nature is endowed, far above that of the other sex ; their keen and discerning sensibility to the tender, the beautiful and the luxuriant, render thern averse to critical restraints. With the exception of Joanna Baillie and Mrs. Tighe, scarcely any of them seem to have PREFACE. IX inverted their pen. As the line came first to the brain, so it was written ; as it was written, so it was printed. Mrs. Hemans's melody was as much improvisation as Miss Lon- don's ; Mrs. Butler disdains to chip off her roughest corners ; Mrs. Norton exults in the swiftness of her strength, and Miss Barrett glories in her expedients to save time, though they be false rhymes or distorted syllables. A due degree of conde- scension to take more pains w-ould have gained for either of these ladies an increase of excellence, which even their genius might covet. The editor has purposely omitted selections from several of the older female writers of rhyme, and more of the multi- tude in the present age, taking as he passed along, only those of real merit or accidental distinction, to show the progress of feminine talent ; and reserving the bulk of the book for more copious extracts from those whose writings are most highly appreciated for moral and poetical excellence. Thus, while a due regard has been paid to antiquarian curiosity, our book presents a treasury of well nigh all the best pieces from the pens of the British female poets ; which will be more to the general taste. The number of women writing occasionally for magazines or annuals, is beyond count, and an interesting book might be compiled from such sources ; but it has been judged most for the reader's benefit that we should confine ourselves chiefly to the list of those whose poems have been published or collected in separate volumes of their own. In the selection of the pieces, the first object has been to give fair examples of each writer's peculiar characteristics ; and, where the rule could be followed without too great loss, those which are more frequently met with have been put 1* PREFACE aside for pieces of equal merit less familiar to the reader ; and, if they be to his taste, the editor will congratulate him- self on his own, since his only claim for thanks, as his only merit, is having furnished the string which binds the flowers together. If any should censure him as being too lenient in his criticisms, and unsparing in his praise, his only excuse is that he has more pleasure in giving credit than in detraction, and gladly suffered the chaff to be blown away, while he secured the golden grains. Finding fault is ever an unwel- come office, but especially distasteful to an American when a lady is the subject. CONTENTS JULIANA BERNERS Biographical Sketch page 13 Bestys of Venery 14 Bestys of the Chace 14 ANNE BOLEYN Biographical Sketch 16 CATHARINE PARR Biographical Sketch 17 LADY BERGAVENNY Biographical Sketch 18 COUNTESS OF ARUNDEL Biographical Sketch 19 MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS Biographical Sketch 20 Translation by a Scotch Lady. ... 21 Hymn 21 Translation by the Editor 22 QUEEN ELIZABETH Biographical Sketch 22 A Ditty 23 COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE Biographical Sketch 24 Psalm lxiii 24 Chorus from the Tragedy of An- tony 25 LADY ELIZABETH CAREW Biographical Sketch 26 Revenge of Injuries 26 KATHARINE PHILIPS Biographical Sketch 28 On II. Cor. v. 19 30 To Mrs. M. A. at Parting 31 The Virgin 32 Against Pleasure— An Ode 33 A Country Life 34 DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE Biographical Sketch 35 Queen Mab 36 Melancholy 37 Her Dwelling 37 ANNA, MARCHIONESS OF WHARTON Biographical Sketch 38 ANNE KILLIGREW Biographical Sketch 39 The Discontent 39 ANNE, COUNTESS OF WIN- CHELSEA Biographical Sketch 41 Life's Progress 41 MRS. ELIZABETH ROWE Biographical Sketch 43 On Happiness 44 Ode to Love 46 A Hymn 47 ANNE HOWARD, VISCOUNTESS IRWIN Biographical Sketch 49 FRANCES THYNNE, DUCHESS OF SOMERSET Biographical Sketch 51 A Rural Meditation 52 A Midnight Hymn 52 The Dying Christian's Hope 53 THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE Biographical Sketch 54 LADY MARY WORTLEY MON- TAGU Biographical Sketch 54 Her Estimate of Love 54 Reply to Pope's Imitation of the First Satire of the Second Book of Horace 55 Lines written shortly after her Marriage 57 Experience Late 58 ANNA CHAMBER, COUNTESS TEMPLE Biographical Sketch 53 To the Duchess of Leeds 58 (xi) CONTENTS, MRS ANNE STEELE Biographical Sketch A Morning Hymn Resignation To \l> Watch ANNA WILLIAMS Biographical Sketch Sonnel to a Lady of Indiscreet Virtue On a Lady Singing ELIZABETH CARTER Biographical Sketch Ode to Wisdom A Night Piece Written at Midnight in a Thunder Sturm MRS. GREVILLE Biographical Sketch Prayer for Indifference Reply by t 1 1 • Countess of C LADV ANNE BARNARD Biographical Sketch Auld Robin Grav MISS JANE ELLIOT I. The Flowers of the Forest. MRS. COCKBURN Biographical Sketch II. The Flowers of the Forest MRS. ANNE HUNTER Biographical Sketch Song Song Indian Death Song The Lot of Thousands SUSANNA RLAMIRE Biographical Sketch What ails this Heart o' mine. . The Siller Croun The Waefu' Heart Auld Robin Forbes MRS. MARY ROBINSON Biographical Sketch Stanzas MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH Biographical Sketch Sonnets : To tin' Moon The Departure id' the Nightingale The Close of Spring Should the Lone Wanderer To Night To Tranquillitj 91 Written in a Churchyard 92 English Scenery 92 The Hot-house Rose 94 Ode I" the .Missel Thrush 95 The Nautilus 96 The Cricket 97 ANNA SI0W Alii) Biographical Sketch 98 The Anniversary 98 MRS. TIC I IE Biographical Sketch 102 First Visit of Love to Pysche 103 Palace of Love 105 Psyche's Discovery of Love 107 Jealousy HO 'I'lii' Power of Love to Bless Ill Delay of Love Compensated 114 Sonnet H5 To Time 116 Hagar in the l) isert 110 On receiving a Branch of Mezere- on which flowered at Woodstock 118 MRS. THRALE Biographical Sketch 120 The Three Warnings 121 MRS. BARBAULD Biographical Sketch 124 Address to the Deity ISS Hymn 120 Hymn for Easier-Sunday 128 Hymn. ■• ■ 129 Hymn to Content 130 To Wisdom 132 Ode to Spring 133 Hymns in Prose: Behold the Shepherd 134 Winter 136 The Happj Land 137 HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS Biographical Sketch 138 Tiusi in Providence 138 Song 139 A Paraphrase 140 MISS HANNAH MORE Biographical Sketch 141 Patriotism 142 A Suspected Wife 143 Scenes of Early Love 145 Love and Honour 146 Virtue 140 Morning Hymn 147 Unostentatious Virtue 148 CONTENTS. Death 149 Romancing 150 Indolence 151 ANNE YEARSLY Biographical Sketch 152 To Stella 153 Clifton Hill 154 MRS. GRANT, OF LAGGAN Biographical Sketch 156 On a Sprig of Heath 15ti The Highland Poor 158 JOANNA BAILLIE Biographical Sketch 159 A Battle Field 161 The Prisoner 161 A Brave Man's Dread of Death. . . 162 Passing Joy 163 A Woman's Picture of Country Life 104 The Beacon 165 The Father and his Child 166 The Travellers by Night 167 The Kitten 171 Reveille 174 Song 175 Song 176 Song 177 Bridal Song 178 Serenade 179 Hymn of the Martyr 180 MARIA JANE JEWSBURY Biographical Sketch 180 There is None like unto Thee 181 The Weeper at the Sepulchre 182 A Dream of the Future 183 MRS. HEMANS Biographical Sketch 188 The Exile of the Morea 191 The Hopelessness of Unbelief. ... 194 The Weakness of Unbelief 196 Prayer for Strength 197 Death of the Princess Charlotte. . 199 A Mother's Love 200 A Mother's Courage 201 Fortitude more than Bravery 202 Death better than Shame 203 Death in Beauty 203 The Refugee in the Forest and His Boy 204 The Persecuted 205 Freedom of Speech 206 The Roma i Catholic Wife 206 Death and Burial at Sea 208 Tyranny working out Freedom .. 212 Tli-> Joy of Battle 213 To the Fountain of Bandusia .... 213 The Sleep ir of Marathon 214 The Spartans March 215 The Urn and the Sword 216 The Messenger Bird 217 A Dirge 218 Farewell to the Dead 219 The Treasures of the Deep 220 Bring Flowers 222 The Revellers 223 The Conqueror's Sleep 225 The Songs of Our Fathers 226 Kindred Hearts 228 Casabianca 229 The Hebrew Mother 231 The Wreck 233 The Trumpet 235 Evening Prayer 236 The Hour of Death 237 The Hour of Prayer 239 The Dreamer 240 The Wi ngs of a Dove 241 I go, Sweet Friends 243 To a Child on His Birthday 243 Sound of the Sea 244 Death of the Hunter's Daughter. . 245 The Homes of England 246 Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers . . 248 The Palm Tree . . . . 249 The Spells of Home 251 The Graves of a Household 253 The Vaudois' Wife 254 The Stranger's Heart 257 The Sleeper 258 The Angler 259 Evening Song of the Tyrolese 260 Woman and Fame 262 Let Her Depart 263 I would We had not Met Again . . 263 Come to Me, Gentle Sleep 264 Christ Stilling the Tempest 265 Hymn of the Vaudois 266 The Agony in the Garden 207 SONNKTS : Trees 268 Foiiage 269 Flowers in a Sick-room 269 Sabbath 270 A Poets Dying Hymn 271 xiv CONTENTS LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON Biographical Sketch .... 274 Petrarch ami Laura 270 The Love of a Poetess 277 Love, Hope, and Beauty 2711 Lines of Life 271) I When should Lovers Breathe their Vows 283 The Little Shroud 284 Expectation 285 The Forgotten One 286' The Changed Home 2^Vt Song 2H0 Sou- 21)1 Crescent! us 291 The Venture of a Poet 293 Success 293 The Floating Beacon 294 Change 295 The Snowdrop 29G The Widow's Mite 297 Last Verses of L. E. L 299 LADY FLORA HASTINGS Biographical Sketch 301 Song 301 Italy 302 The Swan Song 304 MARY-ANNE BROWNE Biographical Sketch 305 The Forgotten 305 She was not Made for Happiness . 307 The Sky 308 Thy Will be Done 310 CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH Biographical Sketch 31 1 Together and Alone 312 Stanzas 312 "" ' Mariner's Midnight Hymn... 313 MRS. AMELIA OP1E Biographical Sketch 315 Song 315 Song 310 Address to a Dying Friend 316 MARY RUSSELL M1TFORD Biographical Sketch 318 The Charm 319 Her Friend 319 Death Scene 320 Claudia Pleading for Angelo 321 Sons 324 DOROTHEA PRIMROSE CAMP- BELL, OF ZETLAND Biographical Sketch 325 Address to Zetland 325 Moonlight 320 MRS. SOUTHEY Biographical Sketch 327 Autumn Flowers 327 To a Dying Infant 328 I never Cast a Flow er Aw ay 332 The Primrose 332 Aura Ven i 'VH The Last Journey 335 To Death 337 MARY HOW1TT Biographical Sketch 339 Tibbie Inglis, or the Scholar's Wooing 340 The Fairies of the Caldon Low. . . 343 The Boy of Heaven 346 Beatrice^ 350 Father is Coming 353 Judgment 355 The Heart of the Outcast 355 Village Children 357 The Fishing Bqat 358 Rejoicing in Heaven 359 FRANCES BROWN Biographical Sketch 3C0 The Spanish Conquests in Ame- rica 360 The Maid of the Rhone 363 Let us Return 367 The Picture of the Dead 368 Streams 369 Dreams of tic Dead 371 The Stars of Night 373 Stephens, the Traveller. r >ng the Ruins of Copan 374 LADY EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY Biographical Sketch 376 Night and Morning 377 Dreams 379 Evening 382 MRS. NORTON Biographical Sketch 384 Twilight 385 CONTENTS, XV A Mother 389 Obscurity of Woman's Worth 390 The Visionary Portrait 39] The Sense of Beauty 393 The Autumn Wind 397 Weep not for Him that Dietb 398 The Child of Earth 399 Sonnet 401 Sonnet.— To my Books 401 Sonnet.— The Weaver 40-2 Bingen 402 The New-born Child 404 Prayer for the Young Prince 407 Common Blessings 409 The Artist-Heart 409 The Prison Chaplain 410 A Fable 411 Neutrality 411 The Blind 412 MISS ELIZA COOK Biographical Sketch 413 The Free 413 Buttercups and Daisies 414 Truth 416 Stanzas 417 Cupid's Arrow 418 The Loved One was not There. .. 418 Home in the Heart 419 Fire 420 Stanzas 421 The Welcome Back 422 Washington 422 'Tis Sweet to Love in Childhood. . 424 The Last Good-bye 425 The Heart, the Heart 426 The Dying Old Man to his Young Wife 427 Harvest Song 429 MRS. SARAH HENRY COLERIDGE Biographical Sketch 430 Love 430 « A Mother over Her Child Devoted to Death 431 MISS LOWE Biographical Sketch 432 Hour of Night Departing 432 Hour of Dawn 433 FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER Biographical Sketch 434 1 1 te Ag lik ■ Anothar 435 The Queen and De Bourbon 436 A Soldier's Love 437 A Fair and Virtuous Woman .... 437 Woman's Heart 438 Charity for the Great 438 An Old Home 439 True and False Love 440 Sadness in Joy 440 The Joy of Love 441 Despair Fearless 442 Youth Clinging to Life 443 Song 443 Upon a Branch of Flowering Aca- cia 444 Impromptu 445 Translation of a Sicilian Song . .. 446 Genius and Love 446 The Ideal 448 Sonnet 449 Past Hours 449 Look up 450 Youth and Age 450 To Pius IX 450 Sonnet 451 Departing 451 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT Biographical Sketch 452 Inanimate Creatures 453 Love of the Redeemed to God .... 454 The Sleeping Babe 455 The Mother's Prayer 456 The Child's Answer 458 The City 461 The Mediator 463 The Pet-name 464 The Wail of the Spirit of Earth. . 467 Chorus after the Promise 468 The Lady's Yes 469 A Child Asleep 470 Catarina to Camoens 472 The Romance of the Swan's Nest 477 Cowper's Grave 480 The Sleep 484 Sonnet.— Tears 486 Sonnet.— Comfort 486 Sonnet.— Exaggeration 487 MISS CHARLOTTE YOUNG Biographical Sketch 487 Every-Day Heroes 487 The Poor Man's Flower 489 THE BEITISH FEMALE POETS, JULIANA BERNERS. Dame (or Lady) Julyans, or Juliana, Barnes or Berners, is the first English woman to whom has been ascribed any English rhyme. Com- mon report gives the time of her birth near the close of the 14th century at Roding Berners, (or Bernish Roding,) Dunmore, Essex; and makes her the daughter of Sir James Berners, though more accu- rate genealogists pronounce this an error. She was the Prioress of Sopewell Nunnery, (near St. Albans,) Hertfordshire. To her is as- cribed the authorship of the celebrated Book of St. Albans, first printed at Westminster, by Wynkyn de Worde, in 1486. It contained three treatises: On Hawking; Hunting; and Coat Armour; to which was added, in a subsequent edition, another on Fishing with an Angle, most probably by another hand, as it diners much in style and temper. Bales describes her as "an ingenious virago," whose personal and mental endowments were of the highest character. " Amongst the many solaces of human life she held the sports of the field in great esti- mation, and was desirous of conveying these arts, by her writings, to the youth, as the first elements of nobility." It may, however, be doubted whether any of the treatises named were from her hand, except the Treatise on Hunting, at the end of which is added : SEjqplfcft tonme .UttliMiis Sterne's troctrfne fit Ijcc 33oftc of ?l}unth\Q. Even this is said to be only a versification of a tract on the subject by Sir Tristram. The piece being merely rules for hunting put into rhyme, it cannot be quoted from as poetry ; and an extract is given only to show the style and language: 2 (13) 14 JULIANA BERNERS BESTYS OF VENERY. Where so ever ye fare by fryth or by fell : My dere divide take bede how Trystam doo you tell. How many manere bestys of venery there were : Lysten to your dame and she shall you lere. Four manere of bestis of venere there are : The fyrste of theym is the harte : the seconde is the hare The boore is one of tho : the wulfe and not one mo. BESTYS OF THE CHACE. And where that ye come in playne or in place : I shall you tell whyche ben bestys of en chace : One of theym is the bucke : a nother is the doo : The foxe and the marteron : and the wylde roo : And ye shall my dere chylde other bestys all : Where so ye theym fynde Rascall ye shall them call. The following song, being- printed with the rhymes on Hunting, and ascribed to Dame Juliana, may be hers : A faythfulle frende wold I fayne finde, To fynde hym there he myghte be founde ; But now is the worlcle wext so unkynde, Y l trenship is fall to the grounde ; (Now a frende I have founde) That I woll nother banne ne curse, But of all frendes in felde or towne, Ever, gramercy, myn own purse. My purse it is my prevy wyfe, This songe I dare bothe synge and saye ; It party th men of moche stryfe, When every man for himselfe shall pay; (As I ryde in riche array) For gold &. sylver men woll me flouryssh ; JULIANA BE RNERS. 15 By this matere I dare well say, Ever gramercy, myn owne purse ! As I ryde wyth golde so rede, And have to doo wyth londys lawe, Men for my money woll make me spede, And for my goodes they woll me knawe , More and less to me woll drawe Bothe the better and the wurse; By this matere I saye in sawe, Ever gramercy myn owne purse ! It fell by me upon a tyme, (As it hath doo by many one mo) My horse, my nete, my shepe, my swyne, And all my goodes they fell me fro ; I went to my frendes and told theym so, And home agayne they badde me trusse; I sayd agayn whan I was wo, Ever gramercy myn owne purse ! Therefore I rede you, syres all, So assaye your frendes or ye have nede, For, an ye come downe, and have a fall, Full fewe of theym for you woll grede. Therefore assaye theym everychone, Bothe the better and the wurse. Our Lorde that shope both sonne and mone, Sende us spendynge in our purse ! ANNE BOLEYN. To this accomplished and unfortunate lady, whose beauty attracted the fatal notice, but could not fix the brutal passion, of the king, who "spared not man in his wrath nor woman in his lust," is sometimes ascribed the following touching poems; though neitner Mr. Warton nor Mr. Ritson think justly. Defiled is my name full sore, Through cruel spyte and false report, That I may saye for evermore Farewell, my joy! adewe, comfort! For wrongfully ye judge of ine Unto my fame a mortall wounde ; Say what ye lyst, it will not be Ye seek for that can not be found. O Death ! rocke me on sleepe, Bringe me on quiet reste ; Let passe my very guiltlesse goste Out of my carefull breste. Toll on the passinge bell, Ringe out the doleful knell, Let the sounde my dethe tell, For I must dye, There is no remedy, For now I dye. (10) ANNEBOLEYN. 17 My paynes who can express ? Alas ! they are so stronge, My dolor will not suffer strength My lyfe for to prolonge ; Toll on the passinge bell, &c. Alone, in prison stronge, I wayle my destenye ; Wo worth this cruel hap that I Should taste this miserye. Toll on the passinge bell, &c. Farewell my pleasures past, Welcum my present payne ! I fele my torments so increse That lyfe cannot remayne. Cease now the passinge bell, Rong is my dolefull knell For the sound my dethe doth tell ; Death doth drawe nye, Sound my end dolefully; For now I dye. CATHARINE PARR, The sixth wife of Henry VIII., was an accomplished woman, and as we learn from Strype, wrote and published some pious psalms in imita- tion of David ; but none of them have sufficient merit to find a place in any compilation. LADY BEftGAVENNY, Most probably (according to Park's addenda to Walpol a's Royal and Noble Authors) the Lady Frances Manners, daughter of the earl of Rutland and wife of Henry, Lord Bergavenny. She was the authoress of several pieces in " The Monument of Matrons," &c, compiled by Thomas Bentley (about) 1582; and of " Precious Pedes of perfect God- liness,' begun by her and finished by John Philip. At the end of the former is this acrostic on her own name : F rom sinfulness preserve me, Lord, R enevv my spirit in my hart-, A nd let my tongue therewith accord, U ttering all goodness for his part. N o thought let there arise in me C ontrairie to thy precepts ten; E ver let me most mindful be S till for to praise thy name, Amen. A s of my soul, so of my bodie, B e thou my guider, my God ! U nto thee only do I crie, R emove from me thy furious rod. G raunt that my head may still devise A 11 things that pleasing be to thee. U nto mine ears, and to mine eies, E ver let there a watch set bee, N one ill that they may heare and see N o wicked deede let my hand do, Y n thy good paths let my feet go. (18) COUNTESS OF ARUNDEL. Anne, sister of the last Lord Dacre, whose husband, Philip, earl of Arundel, died in the Tower, imprisoned for alleged treason, 1595. Lodge ascribes to her the lines below ; which he supposes were writ- ten on the occasion of her lord's death. Mr. Lodge characterises them as "in the best style of the time and in a strain of unaffected piety and tenderness; abounding with the imperfect beauties, as well as with the strong errors of an untaught poetical fancy." " They appear on the cover of a letter in her handwriting." The Countess died in 1630, at the age of 72. In sad and ashie weeds I sigh, I grone, I pine, I rnourne ; My oten yellow reeds I all To jeat and ebon turne. My watrie eies like wintrie skyes My furrowed cheekes o'erflowe ; All heaven knowe why, men mourne as I, And who can blame my woe ? In sable robes of night my dayes Of joy consumed be; My sorrowe sees no light; my lights Through sorrowe nothing see; For now my sonne his course hath ronne, And from his sphere doth goe To endless bed of folded lead, And who can blame my woe ? My flocke I now forsake that soe My sheepe my grief may knowe; The lilies loth to take, that since His death presumed to growe ; (19) 20 COUNTESS OF ARUNDEL. I envie aire because it dare Still breathe, and he not soe ; Hate earthe that doth entombe his youth, And who can blame my woe ? Not I, poore I alone — (alone How can this sorrowe be ?) Not only men make mone, but more Than men make mone with me. The gods of greenes, the mountain queenes, The fairy circled rowe, The Muses nine, and powers divine, Do all condole my woe. MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. This beautiful and highly accomplished woman, whose feminine character ill fitted her for the throne of a rude nation in the most agi- tated period of its history, and who had the misfortune to live among enemies paid to slander her, while none dared to defend her against a haughty, powerful rival, that united to a woman's jealousy of her supe- rior charms, the sternest policy of unscrupulous ambition, is now seldom named without melancholy interest and a wish to forget her faults in the trials of her circumstances. The French being her tongue from infancy, she preferred to write in it; and, though not strictly within the plan of our work, we subjoin a copy of verses written during her im- prisonment in Fotheringay Castle, with a Latin hymn, the musical cadence of which has been greatly admired, " composed and repeated" by her the day before her execution : Que suis-je, helas ! et de quoi sert la vie ? Pen suis fors qu'un corps prive de cueur ; Un ombre vayn, un object de malheur, MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 21 Qui n'a plus rien que de mourir en vie. Plus ne me portez, O enemys, d'envie, Qui n'a plus l'esprit a la grandeur : J'ai consomme d'excessive douleur, Voitre ire en bref de voir assouvie, Et vous amys qui mVvez tenu chere, Souvenez-vous que sans cueur, et sans santey, Je ne scaurois auqun bon ceuvre faire. Et que sus bas etant assez punie, J'aie ma part en la joie infinie. TRANSLATION BY A SCOTCH LADY. Alas ! what am I ? and in what estate ? A wretched corse bereaved of its heart; An empty shadow, lost unfortunate, To die is now in life my only part. Foes to my greatness ! let your envy rest, In me no taste for grandeur now is found ; Consumed by grief, with heavy ills oppressed, Your wishes and desires will soon be crowned. And you, my friends, who still have held me dear, Bethink you, that when health and heart are fled, And every hope of earthly good is dead, 'T is time to wish our sorrow ended here ; And that .this, punishment on earth is given That my pure soul may rise to endless bliss in heaven. O Domine Deus ! speravi in te O care mi Jesu ! nunc libera me. In dura catena, in misera pcena, desidero te ; Languendo, gemendo, et genu-flectendo, Adoro, imploro, ut liberes me ! 22 QUEEN ELIZABETH. TRANSLATION BY THE EDITOR. My God, Jehovah, I have trusted in thee ; Jesus, my Saviour, now rescue thou me ! Like fetters of iron deep griefs me environ, — thy smile let me see ! With sighing, and crying, at thy feet lowly lying, 1 adore thee, implore thee, now rescue thou me! QUEEN ELIZABETH. Several specimens of this vain, pedantic, but really accomplished and intellectual woman's poetical efforts have reached us. The follow- ing lines, said to have been written by her with charcoal on a shutter, while a prisoner at Woodstock, are given by Percy from Hentzner, as emended by Walpole. Fortune ! how thy restless wavering state Hath fraught with cares my troubled witt ! Witness this present prisonn, wither fate Could beare* me and the joys I quit. Thus causedest the guiltie to be losed From bandes wherein are innocents inclosed ; Causing the guiltles to be straight reserved, And freeing those that death hath well-deserved. But by her envy can be nothing wroughte, So God send to my foes all they have thoughte. Elizabethe, Prisonner. * "Could beare;" — an ancient idiom, equivalent to "did bear," 01 ; hath borne." — Percy. QUEEN ELIZABETH. 23 In Hart's edition of " Royal and Noble Authors," we have a lame version by her of the XlVth Psalm ; and an inflated translation of the chorus in the second act of Seneca's Hercules CEtseus. Mr. Ellis gives us the following, preserved by Puttenham. It has reference to some supposed conspiracy in favour of Mary, Queen of Scots. A DITTY. The doubt of future foes exiles my present joy, And wit me warns to shun such snares as threaten mine annoy. For falsehood now doth flow, and subject faith doth ebb ; Which would not be if reason ruled, or wisdom weaved the web. But clouds of toys untried do cloak aspiring minds, Which turn to rain of late repent by course of changed winds. The top of hope supposed, the root of ruth will be And fruitless all their grafled guiles as shortly ye shall see. Then dazzled eyes with pride, which great ambition blinds, Shall be unsealed by worthy wights, whose foresight fortune finds. The daughter of debate, that eke discord doth sow, Shall reap no gain where former rule hath taught still peace to grow. No foreign banished wight shall anchor in this port, Our realm it brooks no stranger's force, let them elsewhere resort. Our rusty sword with rest, shall first his edge employ, To pull their tops that seek each change and gape for joy. COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE, The celebrated sister of Sir Philip Sidney, whose patronage of learning she munificently emulated and whose literary labours she often shared. She married, 1576, Henry, earl of Pembroke, and died at a very advanced age in 1621. Conjointly with her brother she executed a metrical version of nearly all the Psalms, but it is impossible to distinguish their separate contributions. The version is by no means smooth, from an un- successful endeavour to be literal. Here is a good specimen : PSALM LXIII. God, the God where all my forces ly, How doe I hunt for thee with early haste ? How is for thee my spirit thirsty dry ? How gaspes my soul for thy refreshing taste ? Witnesse this waterlesse, this weary waste ; Whence, O Lord, that I again transferr'd might be Thy glorious might in sacred place to see ! Then on thy praise would I my lipps employ, With whose kind mercies nothing may contend No, not this life itself, whose care and joy In praying voice and lifted hands should end. This to my soul would such a banquet send, That sweetly fed, my mouthe should sing thy name In gladdest notes contented mirth could frame. And, lo ! even here I mind thee on my bed, And interrupt my sleeps with nightly thought, How thou hast been the target of my head, How thy winges shadow hath my safety wrought ; Ami though my body from thy view be brought, Yet fixed on thee my loving soide remaines Whose right right hand from falling me sustaines. (24) COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE. 25 But such as seek my life to ruinate, Then shall the earth in deepest gulph receave ; First murd'ring blade shall end their living date, And then their flesh to teeth of foxes leave. As for the King, the King shall then conceave High joy in God, and all that God adore, When lying mouthes shall stopped lye no more. V A more fair example of her versification is found in her translation of the tragedy of Antony, as will be seen in this CHORUS. Lament we our mishaps, Drown we with tears our woe ; For lamentable happes Lamented easy growe ; And much lesse torment bring Than when they first did spring. We want that wofull song, Wherewith wood musique's queen Doth ease her woes among Fresh spring-time's bushes greene ; On pleasant branche alone Reviewing auntient raone. We want that mournful sound, That prattling Progne makes, On fields of Thracian ground, Or streames of Thracian lakes j To empt her breast of pain For Itys, by her slaine. 26 LADY ELIZABETH CAREW. Though Halcyons do still, Bewailing Ceyx' lot, The seas with bickerings fill, Which his dead limmes have got, Not even other grave Than tombe of waves to have. And though the bird in death, (That most Meander loves) So sweetly sighes his breath When death his fury proves, As almost softs his heart, And almost blunts his dart. Yet all the plaints of those, Nor all their tearful 'larmes, Cannot conceal our woes, Nor serve to waile the harmes, In soule which we, poor we, To feel enforced be. LADY ELIZABETH CAREW, (WIFE OF SIR HENRY CAREW OR CAREY.) To this lady, Langbaine, with others, attributes a tragedy, publishea 1613 : Mariam, the Fair Queen of Jewry : in which occurs the follow- ing excellent chorus : REVENGE OF INJURIES. The fairest action of our human life Is scorning to revenge an injury ; For who forgives without a further strife, His adversary's heart to him doth tie. And 'tis a firmer conquest truly said, To win the heart, than overthrow the head. LADY ELIZABETH CAREW. 27 If we a worthy enemy do find, To yield to worth it must be nobly done ; But if of baser metal be his mind. In base revenge there is no honour won. Who would a worthy courage overthrow, And who would wrestle with a worthless foe ? We say our hearts are great, and cannot yield ; Because they cannot yield, it proves them poor : Great hearts are task'd beyond their power, but seld The weakest lion will the loudest roar. Truth's school for certain doth this same allow, High-heartedness doth sometimes teach to bow. A noble heart doth teach a virtuous scorn. To scorn to owe a duty overlong ; To scorn to be for benefits forborne ; To scorn to lie, to scorn to do a wrong. To scorn to bear an injury in mind ; To scorn a free-born heart slave-like to bind. But if for wrongs we needs revenge must have, Then be our vengeance of the noblest kind ; Do we his body from our fury save, And let our hate prevail against our mind ? What can 'gainst him a greater vengeance be, Than make his foe more worthy far than he ? Had Mariam scorn'd to leave a due unpaid, She would to Herod then have paid her love, And not have been by sullen passion sway'd. To fix her thoughts all injury above Is virtuous pride. Had Mariam thus been proud, Long famous life to her had been allow'd. KATHARINE PHILIPS, Daughter of Mr. John Fowler, a London merchant, was born in 1631, married, at the age of 16, to James Philips, Esq., of Cardigan, and died of smallpox in 1664. She was much admired by the men of talent cotemporary with her. Jeremy Taylor, at her request, wrote and addressed to her, a " Discourse on Friendship." She seems to have formed around her a society of both sexes, each of whom received from her a classical name, as Philoclea, Lucasia, Palcemon, (Jer. Taylor, though it was also applied to Mr. Francis Finch), Silvander (Sir Ed. Deering), Antenor (her husband). She herself assumed that of Orinda. Her poems were published first surreptitiously, and greatly against her will, the more so as they were very incorrectly given; though she says, that " should any one have brought me those copies corrected and amended, and a thousand pounds to have bought my permission for their being printed, he should not have obtained it." A more accurate and full edition was published after her death, to which were prefixed commen- datory verses from several distinguished men : as the Earl of Orrery, who says : " The pencil to your pen must yield the place, This draws the soul, where that but draws the face ;" — the Earl of Roscommon, who applied to her an imitation of Horace's Ode, Integer vitce, &c. . Cowley, who calls her poems her "im- mortal, progeny," in whose " Birth thou no one touch dost find Of th' ancient curse of womankind, Thou bring T st not forth with pain, It neither travail is nor labour of thy brain ; So easily from thee they come, And there is so much room In the unexhausted and unfathomed womb ; That like the Holland Countess thou might'st bear A child for every day of all the fertile year ;" (28) KATHARINE PHILIPS. Flatman, who, speaking of her early death, adds : "Gone, while our expectations flew As high a pitch as she has done, Exhaled to heaven like early dew, Betimes the little shining drops are flown, Ere the drowsy world perceived that manna was come down." The poetical genius of the " matchless Orinda" was not of a high order, though abounding in antithetical conceits, and sometimes marked with epigrammatic point. Her moral tone is always elevated, and good maxims may be selected from her couplets and quatrains : " Friendship, like heraldry, is hereby known, Richest when plainest, bravest when alone. " He who commands himself is more a prince, Than he who nations keep in awe; Who yield to all that does their souls convince, Shall never need another law." In a piece on Controversies in Religion, she has these lines : "Religion which true policy befriends, Designed by God to serve Man's holiest ends, Is by that old Deceiver's subtle play Made the chief party in its own decay, And meets that Eagle's destiny, whose breast Felt the same shaft which his own feathers drest." The reader will remember the same thought as occurring in Byron's " English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," when speaking of Kirke White's melancholy death : " So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, Viewed his own feathers on the fatal dart, And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart ; Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel ; While the same plumage that had warmed his nest, Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast." 3* 30 KATHARINE PHILIPS. Waller, nearly cotemporaneously with our authoress, employs the same figure : TO A LADY SINGING ONE OF HIS OWN SONGS. "Chloris, yourself you so excel, When you vouchsafe to breathe my thought, That, like a spirit, with this spell Of my own teaching, I am caught. The eagle's fate and mine are one, Which in the shaft that made him die, Espy'd a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high." The original is, however, in^Eschylus, who alludes to it as a fable or proverb in common use ; for the Scholiast, in line 808 of " The Birds " of Aristophanes, preserves a fragment of a lost tragedy, " The Myrmi- dons," which may be translated thus : " As runs the moral of the Libyan fable : The eagle, wounded by a bow-shot arrow, Says, as he sees the plumage in the shaft, ' Alas ! the fatal feather is my own !' " The following show her best manner: ON II. COR. V. 19. "God was in Christ reconciling the world to himself." O what a desperate load of sins had we. When God must plot for our felicity ! When God must beg us that he may forgive, And dye himself before mankind could live ! And what still are we, when our King in vain Begs his lost rebels to be friends again ? What floods of love proceed from Heaven's smile, Atoned to pardon and to reconcile ! KATHARINE PHILIPS. 31 He hath a Father's not a tyrant's joy, Shows more his power to save than to destroy. Did there ten thousand worlds to ruin fall, One God could save, one Christ redeem them all. Be silent then, ye narrow souls, take heed Lest you restrain the mercy you will need. But, O my soul, from these be different ; Imitate thou a nobler precedent ; As God with open arms the world does woo, Learn thou like God to be enlarged too ; As he begs thy consent to pardon thee, Learn to submit unto thy enemy; As he stands ready thee to entertain, Be thou as forward to return again ; As he was crucified for and by thee, Crucifie thou what caused his agony; And like to him be mortified to sin, Die to the world as he died for it then. TO MRS. M. A. AT PARTING. 1 have examined and so find Of all that favour me, There's none I grieve to leave behind But only, only thee. To part with thee I needs must die Could parting sep'rate thee and I. Our changed and mingled souls are grown To such acquaintance now, That if each would resume their own, Alas ! we know not how. We have each other so engrost, That each is in the union lost. By my own temper I shall guess At thy felicity, 32 KATHARINE PHILIPS. And only like my happiness Because it pleaseth thee. Our hearts at any time will tell If thou, or I, be sick or well. Thy leiger soul in me shall lie, And all my thoughts reveal ; Then back again with mine shall fly, And thence to me shall steal. Thus still to one another tend ; Such is the sacred name of Friend. THE VIRGIN. The things that make a virgin please. She that seeks will find them these : — A beauty not to art in debt, Rather agreeable than great; An eye wherein at once do meet The beams of kindness and of wit ; An undissembled innocence, Apt not to give, nor take offence ; A conversation at once free From passion and from subtlety ; A face that's modest, yet serene, A sober and yet lively mien ; The virtue which does her adorn, By honour guarded, not by scorn ; With such wise lowliness indued, As never can be mean or rude ; That prudent negligence enrich, And times her silence and her speech ; Whose equal mind does always move Neither a foe nor slave to love ; And whose religion strong and plain, Not superstitious nor profane. KATHARINE PHILIPS. AGAINST PLEASURE AN ODE. There 's no such thing as pleasure here, 'Tis all a perfect cheat, Which does but shine and disappear, Whose charm is but deceit; The empty bribe of yielding souls, Which first betrays and then controls. 'T is true, it looks at distance fair ; But if we do approach, The fruit of Sodom will impair, And perish at a touch ; It being than in fancy less, And we expect more than possess. For by our pleasures we are cloyed And so desire is done ; Or else, like rivers, they make wide The channels where they run ; And either way true bliss destroys, Making us narrow, or our joys. We covet pleasure easily, But ne'er true bliss possess ; For many things must make it be, But one may make it less ; Nay, were our state as we could choose it, 'T would be consumed by fear to lose it. What art thou, then, thou winged air, More weak and swift than fame ! Whose next successor is despair, And its attendant shame. Th' experienced prince then reason had, Who said of Pleasure — "It is mad." c 33 34 KATHARINE PHILIPS. A COUNTRY LIFE. How sacred and how innocent A country-life appears, How free from tumult, discontent, From flattery or fears ! This was the first and happiest life, When man enjoyed himself, Till pride exchanged peace for strife, And happiness for pelf. 'T was here the poets were inspired, Here taught the multitude ; The brave they here with honour fired, And civilized the rude. That golden age did entertain No passion but of love : The thoughts of ruling and of gain Did ne'er their fancies move. Them that do covet only rest, A cottage will suffice : It is not brave to be possessed Of earth, but to despise. Opinion is the rate of things, From hence our peace doth flow; I have a better fate than kings, Because I think it so. When all the stormy world doth roar, How unconcerned am I ! I cannot fear to tumble lower, Who never could be high. DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE. 35 Secure in these unenvied walls, I think not on the state, And pity no man's ease that falls From his ambition's height. Silence and innocence are safe ; A heart that's nobly true, At all these little arts can laugh, That do the world subdue ! Besides her many original pieces, she translated The Pompey, and four acts of The Horace of Corneille ; which were published with her poems in folio, London, 1667. DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE, Of the noble family of Lucas, and wife of William Cavendish, duke of Newcastle. Shortly after their marriage, the triumph of the Parlia- mentarians drove them abroad. During their exile (with the exception of a year and a half when she was in England) the noble pair solaced each other with the closest connubial friendship, and found a common employment in literary labours, which were continued zealously after the restoration, when for them they abandoned the court and lived on their estates in the country. Some idea may be formed of their inde- fatigability when it is stated that they filled about twelve volumes folio with poems, plays, romances, philosophical observations, history, biog- raphy, &c. Of these the duchess contributed the larger part, pouring forth through her pen whatever came into her head, never stopping to review her thoughts "lest it should disturb her following conceptions;" nay, it is said that she made her secretary sleep not far off in a truckle- bed, that he might be ready to get up and write any sudden thought she should conceive. She says of herself: " I imagine all those that have read my former books, will say I have writ enough, unless they were better ; but say what you will, it pleaseth me, and, since my delights are harmless, / will satisfy my humour : 36 DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE. " For had my brain as many fancies in 't To fill the world, I 'd put them all in print : No matter whether they be well or ill exprest, My will is done, and that please woman best." The Duke's best known and best work (though she says that his plays were judged to be equal to Ben Jonson's) was a work on horsemanship. Walpole°(Lives of Royal and Noble Authors) is unsparingly satirical on them both : "Though 'amorous in poetry and music,' as my Lord Clarendon says, he was fitter to break Pegasus for a manage, than to mount him up the steps of Parnassus. Of all the riders of that steed, perhaps there have not been a more fantastic couple than his grace and his faithful duchess, who was never off her pillion." Certainly nothing can exceed her or his vanity, except the flattery they bestowed upon one another. Sir Egerton Brydges, in a kindly preface to her autobio- graphy, says, that " her powers, with the aid of a little more arrangement, of something more of scholastic polish, and of a moderate exertion of maturer judgment, might have produced writings which posterity would have esteemed both for their instruction and amusement. But I must confess that she wanted the primary qualities of genius. . . She had not the talent of seizing "a proper selection of circumstances. . . She wanted taste. She knew not what to obtrude and what to leave out." She died in 1672. Her merits and peculiarities as a poetical writer may be seen in the following extracts; the first from "The Pastime and Recreation of the Queen of Fairies in Fairy-land, the centre of the earth:" the other from " Mirth and Melancholy." QUEEN M A B. Q,ueen Mab and all her company Dance on a pleasant mole hill high, To small straw pipes wherein great pleasure They take and keep time, just time and measure : All hand in hand, around, around, They dance npon the fairy-ground; And when she leaves her dancing hall She doth for her attendants call, To wait upon her to a bower, Where she doth sit under a flower, DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE. 37 To shade her from the moonshine bright, Where gnats do sing for her delight ; The whilst the bat doth fly about To keep in order all the rout. A dewy waving leaf's made fit For the queen's bath, where she doth sit, And her white limbs in beauty show, Like a new fallen flake of snow ; Her maids do put her garments on, Made of the pure light from the sun, Which do so many colours take, As various objects shadows make. MELANCHOLY. Her voice is low, and gives a hollow sound ; She hates the light, and is in darkness found ; Or sits with blinking lamps, or tapers small, Which various shadows make against the wall. She loves nought else but noise which discord makes, As croaking frogs whose dwelling is in lakes ; The raven's hoarse, the mandrake's hollow groan, And shrieking owls which fly i' the night alone ; The tolling bell, which for the dead rings out ; A mill, where rushing waters run about ; The roaring winds, which shake the cedars tall, Plough up the seas, and beat the rocks withal. She loves to walk in the still moonshine night, And in a thick dark grove she takes delight ; In hollow caves, thatched houses, and low cells, She loves to live, and there alone she dwells. HER DWELLING. I dwell in groves that gilt are with the sun; Sit on the banks by which clear waters run ; In summers hot down in a shade I lie ; My music is the buzzing of a fly ; 4 38 ANNE, MARCHIONESS OF WHARTON. I walk in meadows, where grows fresh green grass ; In fields, where corn is high, I often pass ; Walk up the hills, where round I prospects see, Some brushy woods, and some all champaigns be ; Returning back, I in fresh pastures go, To hear how sheep do bleat, and cows do low ; In winter cold, when nipping frosts come on, Then I do live in a small house alone ; Although 'tis plain, yet cleanly 'tis within, Like to a soul that's pure, and clear from sin ; And there I dwell in quiet and still peace, Not filled with cares how riches to increase ; I wish nor seek for vain and fruitless pleasures ; No riches are, but what the mind intreasures. Thus am I solitary, live alone, Yet better loved, the more that 1 am known ; And though my face ill-favoured at first sight, After acquaintance, it will give delight. Refuse me not, for I shall constant be; Maintain your credit and your dignity. ANNE, MARCHIONESS OF WHARTON, Daughter of Sir Henry Lee, and first wife of Thomas, earl of Wharton, wrote a number of poems and poetical translations. Waller addressed several sets of complimentary verses to her, and she was the Chloris of his poems. It is said that her paraphrase of the fifty-third chapter of Isaiah, gave him the idea of his two cantos of Divine Poesy. She died in 1685. The following graceful song of Lady Wharton's, is preserved in Tooke's Collection of Miscellaneous Poems. How hardly I concealed my tears ? How oft did I complain, When many tedious days, my fears Told me 1 lov'd in vain ? ANNEKILLIGREW. 39 But now my joys as wild are grown, And hard to be concealed ; Sorrow may make a silent moan, But joy will be revealed. I tell it to the bleating flock, To every stream and tree, And bless the hollow murmuring rock, For echoing back to me. Thus you may see with how much joy We want, we wish, believe ; 'Tis hard each passion to destroy, But easy to deceive. ANNE KILLIGREW, Daughter of a clergyman, and maid of honour to the Duchess of York, was a young lady of great accomplishments, piety, and, if we may trust a portrait by herself, beauty. She added to unusual learning much talent as a painter, and, according to her admiring contempo- raries, as a poetical writer. Wood calls her, " A Grace for beauty, and a Muse for wit." Dryden wrote an Ode on her death, which Dr. John- son pronounces, undoubtedly, " the noblest Ode that our language ever has produced ;" though few will agree with him in such rash praise. She died in 1685. Notwithstanding the high estimation in which she was held, it is difficult to select anything from the volume of her poems (published in 1686), worth transcribing. The following lines occur in an ode, entitled : THE DISCONTENT. Here take no care, take here no care, my Muse, Nor aught of art or labour use, But let thy lines rude and unpolisht go, Nor equal be their feet, nor murm'rous let them flow. 40 ANNEKILLIGREW. The ruggeder my measures run when read, They'll livelier paint th 1 unequal paths that mortals tread, Who when th' are tempted by the smooth ascents, Which flatt'ring hope presents, Brightly they climb, and great things undertake ; But fatal voyages, alas ! they make. But O, the laurel'd fool that doats on fame, Whose hope's applause, whose fear's to want a name , Who can accept for pay Of what he does, what others say ; Exposes now to hostile arms his breast, To toylsome study then betrays his rest, Now to his soul denies a just content Then forces on it what it does resent ; And all for praise of fools ; for such are those Which most of the admiring crowd compose. O famisht soul which such their food can feed ! O wretched labour crowned with such a meed ! Too loud, O Fame ! thy trumpet is too shrill, To Avill a mind to rest, Or calm a stormy breast, Which asks for music soft and still. 'Twas not Amaleck's vanquisht cry, Nor Israel's shout of victory, That could in Saul the rising passion lay ; 'Twas the soft strain of David's lyre the evil spirit chased away. ANNE, COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA, Daughter of Sir Richard Kingsmill, and wife of Heneage, earl of Winchelsea, published "Miscellany Poems on Several Occasions, writ- ten by a Lady, London, 1713, 8vo ;" besides which, several pieces are extant in different collections, and many in manuscript. Pope compli- mented her highly in some verses, to which she made a graceful reply. She died in 1720. Her fable of "The Atheist and the -Acorn" is well known; and Wordsworth says, that "excepting (her) Nocturnal Reverie, and a passage or two in Pope's Windsor Forest, the poetry of the interesting period between the publication of 'Paradise Lost,' and ' The Seasons,' does not contain a single new image of external nature." The " Nocturnal Reverie," though it shows an eye for nature, is tame. The following is the most pleasing specimen of her talent. life's progress. How gaily is at first begun Our life's uncertain race ! Whilst yet that sprightly morning sun, With which we just set out to run, Enlightens all the place. How smiling the world's prospect lies, How tempting to go through ! Not Canaan to the prophet's eyes, From Pisgah, with a sweet surprise, Did more inviting show. How soft the first ideas prove Which wander through our minds ! How full the joys, how free the love, Which does that early season move, As flowers the western winds ! 4 * (41) 42 ANNE, COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA Our sighs are then but vernal air, But April drops our tears, Which swiftly passing, all grows fair, Whilst beauty compensates our care, And youth each vapour clears. But oh ! too soon, alas ! we climb, Scarce feeling we ascend The gently-rising hill of Time, From whence with grief we see that prime, And all its sweetness, end. The die now cast, our station known, Fond expectation past : The thorns which former days had sown, To crops of late repentance grown, Through which we toil at last. Whilst every care 's a driving harm, That helps to bear us down ; Which faded smiles no more can charm, But every tear's a winter storm, And every look 's a frown. MRS. ELIZABETH ROWE Was the daughter of Mr. Walter Singer, a pious and educated gen- tleman, who suffered imprisonment for non-conformity at Ilchester, in Somersetshire, where he afterwards married, and the subject of this notice was born, September 11, 1674. She early displayed the con- siderable talent which won for her the esteem of several eminent con- temporaries, and a popular fame at one time quite enviable. She began to write verses at twelve years of age ; when little more than eighteen she produced her paraphrase of the thirty-eighth chapter of Job, at the request of Bishop Ken, who thought it worthy of his discriminating and decisive praise ; and in 1696, several of her poems appeared with the name of Philomela, a title given her, as is supposed, by her admir- ing friends. Uniting some beauty to her various accomplishments, she had several suitors for her hand, among whom was the poet Prior, who complimented her in a preface to his poems. She remained single until the year 1710, when she married Mr. Thomas Rowe, a gentle- man, thirteen years younger than herself, of fine, cultivated understand- ing. Their union was very happy and affectionate, until his death in 1715, after which she lived in studious retirement, cultivating religion and letters. She died in 1736. Mrs. Rowe is better known and es- teemed as a moral and religious prose writer, than as a poetess. Her letters show a sufficiently warm imagination, though restrained by a strong sense of virtue. Her Devout Exercises of the Heart were edited after her death by Dr. Watts, and have had much favour from their ardent devotional rapture. Her miscellaneous works in prose and verse were published three years after her death in two volumes, to which were prefixed a number of commendatory poems by different hands, among them one by Dr. Watls, who says of her "divine poems :" " In vain I bid my tuneful powers unite ; My soul retired and not my tongue ; I was all ear, and Philomela's song Was all divine delight." (43) 44 MRS. ELIZABETH ROWE. The following will give the reader a fair knowledge of her manner: ON HAPPINESS. Whatever diff'rent paths mankind pursue. Oh Happiness ! 't is thee we keep in view ! 'T is thee in ev'ry action we intend, The noblest motive, and superior end ! Thou dost the scarcely finished soul incline ; Its first desire, and conscious thought, is thine ; Our infant breasts are swayed by thee alone, When pride and jealousy are yet unknown. Through life's obscure and wild variety, Our steadfast wishes never start from thee. Thou art of all our waking thoughts the theme ; We court thee too in every nightly dream : Th' immortal flame with equal ardour glows, Nor one short moment's intermission knows : Whether to courts or temples we repair, With restless zeal we search thee everywhere : Whether the roads that to perdition lead, Or those which guide us to the stars, we tread, Thine is the hope, th' inestimable prize, The glorious mark on which we fix our eyes ! Thy charms th' enamoured libertine entice Through all the wild destructive paths of vice. Th' advent'rous man refines on sin, and makes, In search of thee, to hell new beaten tracks ; Enchanting pleasure dances in his sight, And tempts him forward by a treach'rous light. But while thy flatt'ring smiles his thoughts inflame, Thou provest to him a mere fantastic name, A fair delusion, and a pleasing cheat, A gaudy vision, and a soft deceit; Which while the wretch pursues with eager pace, And seems to overtake thee in the race, MRS. ELIZABETH RO WE. 45 An airy phantom mocks his close embrace ; His arms in vain the sportive shade would fold, Still like a gliding ghost it slips his fondest hold ; The disappointment heightens yet his rage, And tempts him with fresh ardour to engage ; Successless, but unwearied in the strife, He still pursues thee to the verge of life ; With life compelled his dotage to resign, The last despairing sigh he breathes is thine. The pious man directs his vows to thee, And proves thy most pathetic votary. Virtue itself, even virtue he regards; But as thy favour the fatigue rewards. To silent shades, and solitude obscure, Far from the world thou dost his steps allure ; But there he lives retired, a glorious epicure, And gladly quits the fleeting joys of sense, In search of bliss more lasting and intense. Not such as the fond lover's heart beguiles, When, without art, his yielding mistress smiles ; Not such as fills the youthful hero's mind, When wreaths of victory his temples bind : His thoughts a nobler luxury would prove, Such as the blessed immortals know above ; A spark divine like theirs his breast inflames, Enjoyments all divine like theirs he claims, Licentious and unbounded in his aims, To pleasure's sacred spring his soul aspires, There only hopes to quench his infinite desires. Not envious hell the passion can suppress, Fired by thy name, alluring Happiness ! Undaunted he maintains the gen'rous strife, And struggles for thee to the close of life ; Then joyful clasps thee in his dying arms, And yields his breath, possessed of all thy charms. 46 MRS. ELIZABETH ROWE. ODE TO LOVE. Assist my doubtful muse, propitious Love, Let all my soul the sacred impulse prove : For thine 's a holy unpolluted flame, Howe'er the libertines profane thy name ; Hovve'er with impious cant, hypocrisy And senseless superstition blemish thee The pure result of sober reason thou ; Thy laws the strictest honour must allow ; Thy laws each vicious thought control : From thee devotion takes its flaming wings : Thou giv'st the noblest motion to the soul, And govem'st all its springs. To great attempts thou gen'rous minds dost move, And only such are privileged to love ; Th' heroic race, the brightest names of old, Were all thy glorious votaries enrolled. Without thee, human life A tedious round of circling cares would be, A cursed fatigue, continual strife, And tiresome vanity. Thy charms our restless griefs control, And calm the stormy motions of the soul : Before thee pride and enmity, With all infernal passions, fly. And couldst thou in the realms below But once display thy beauteous face, The damned a short redress might know, And ev'ry terror fly the place. From thee one bright unclouded smile Would all the torments there beguile ; Thy smiles th' eternal tempests could assuage, And make the damned forget their rage; The sulph'rous waves would cease to roar, And calmly glide along the silent shore. MRS. ELIZABETH ROWE. 47 No fabled Venus gave thee birth At Cyprus yet the goddess was not named. Nor at Idalia, nor at Paphos famed ; Nor yet was feigned from foaming seas to rise ; For yet no seas appeared, or fountains flowed : Nor yet distinguished in the skies, Her radiant planet glowed. But thou wast long ere motion sprung its race, Ere chaos, and immeasurable space Resigned their useless rights to elemental place ; Before the sparkling lamps on high Were kindled up, and hung around the sky ! Before the sun led on the circling hours, Or vital seeds produced their active powers ; Before the first intelligences strung Their golden harps, and soft preludiums sung To Love, the mighty cause whence their existence sprung, Th' ineffable Divinity, His own resemblance meets in thee. By this thy glorious lineage thou dost prove Thy high descent; for GOD himself is Love. A HYMN. The glorious armies of the sky To thee, Almighty King, Triumphant anthems consecrate, And hallelujahs sing. But still their most exalted flights Fall vastly short of thee : How distant then must human praise From thy perfections be! 48 MRS. ELIZABETH ROWE. Yet how, my God, shall I refrain, When to my ravished sense Each creature everywhere around Displays thy excellence ! The active lights that shine above, In their eternal dance, Reveal their skilful Maker's praise With silent elegance. The blushes of the morn confess Tbat thou art still more fair, When in the East its beams revive, To gild the fields of air. The fragrant, the refreshing breeze Of ev'ry flow'ry bloom In balmy whispers own, from Thee Their pleasing odours come. The singing birds, the warbling winds, And waters murm'ring fall To praise the first Almighty Cause With difPrent voices call. Thy num'rous works exalt thee thus, And shall I silent be ? No ; rather let me cease to breathe, Than cease from praising Thee! ANNE HOWARD, VISCOUNTESS IRWIN, Daughter of the Earl of Carlisle, and married first to Viscount Irwin, afterward to Colonel Douglas. She died in 1760. She wrote, among other poems, a spirited defence of her sex in answer to Pope's Characters of Women, which Duncombe praises in his Feminead : " By generous minds one peeress more demands A grateful tribute from all female hands ; One, who, to shield them from the worst of foes, In their just cause dared Pope himself oppose. Their own dark forms Deceit and Envy wear, By Irwin touched with Truth's celestial spear ; By her disarmed, ye witlings, now give o'er Your empty sneers, and shock the sex no more ! Thus bold Camilla, when the Trojan chief Attacked her country, flew to its relief; Beneath her lance the bravest warriors bled, And fear dismayed the host which great y£neas led." Her own witty lines will not be unacceptable : Bv custom doomed to folly, sloth, and ease, No wonder Pope such female triflers sees ; Nor would the satirist confess the truth, Nothing so like as male and female youth; Nothing so like as man and woman old, Their joys, their woes, their hates, if truly told ; Though different acts seem different sexes' growth, 'T is the same principle impels them both. — View daring man, strong with ambition's fire ; The conq'ring hero or the youthful squire, By different deeds aspire to deathless fame, One numbers man, the other numbers game 5 d (49) 50 ANNE HOWARD, VISCOUNTESS IRWIN. — View a fair nymph, blessed with superior charms, Whose tempting form the coldest bosom warms ; No eastern monarch more despotic reigns Than this fair tyrant of the Cyprian plains. Whether a crown or bauble we desire, Whether to learning or to dress aspire, Whether we wait with joy the trumpet's call, Or wish to shine the fairest at a ball ; In either sex the appetite 's the same, For love of power is still the love of fame. — Women must in a narrow orbit move, But power alike both males and females love. What makes the difference then, you may inquire, Between the hero and the rural squire ? Between the maid bred up with courtly care, Or she who earns by toil her daily fare ? Their power is stinted, but not so their will, Ambitious thoughts the humblest cottage fill ; For as they can they push their little fame, And try to leave behind a deathless name. In education all the difference lies ; Woman, if taught, would be as learned and wise As haughty man, inspired by arts and rules ; Where God makes one, nature makes many fools ; And though nugatixes are daily found, Flattering nugators equally abound. Such heads are toy-shops filled with trifling ware, And can each folly with each female share. A female mind like a rude fallow lies, No seeds are sown, but weeds spontaneous rise. As well might we expect in winter spring, As land unfilled a fruitful crop should bring. As well we might expect Peruvian ore We should possess, yet dig not for the store. Culture improves all fruits, all sorts we find, Wit, judgment, sense, fruits of the human mind. FRANCES THYNNE. 51 Can female youth, left to weak woman's care, Misled by custom, Folly's fruitful heir-, Told that their charms a monarch may enslave ; That beauty, like the gods, can kill or save ; Taught the arcana, the mysterious arts, By ambush, dress to catch unwary hearts ; Or, wealthy born, taught to lisp French or dance, Their morals left, Lucretius-like, to chance ; Unused to books, nor virtue taught to prize, Whose mind a savage waste, unpeopled lies, Which to supply, trifles fill up the void, And idly busy to no end employed ; Can these resist, when soothing pleasure wooes ? Preserve their virtue, when their fame they lose ? Can they on other themes converse or write, Than what they hear all day, or dream all night ? FRANCES THYNNE, DUCHESS OF SOMERSET. This noble lady, " who had," says Walpole, " as much taste for the writings of others as modesty about her own," might have obtained fame for her talents, had not her retiring disposition and affectionate piety led her to prefer the society of well-chosen friends, to the applause of the world. Her attainments were considerable, which she employed in the careful education of her children, the charge of whom, and devoted attendance by the sick-bed of her husband, occupied the best part of her life. She was fond, however, of literary society, as is shown by her friendship for Mrs. Rowe, (she was the authoress of the letter signed Cleora, in Mrs. R.'s collection) ; Thomson, whom she kindly patron- ized, (who dedicated to her the first edition of his Spring) ; Dr. Watts, (who dedicated to her his Miscellaneous Thoughts in Prose and Verse); and Shenstone, (who addressed to her his ode on Rural Elegance). She died in 1754. No collection of her poems has been made, though 52 FRANCES THYNNE. a number are preserved in Bingley's " Correspondence of the Countess of Pomfret" with our authoress. The specimens given are found in Dr. Watts's Miscellanies, ascribed to Eusebia. A RURAL MEDITATION. Here in the tuneful groves and flowery fields, Nature a thousand various beauties yields : The daisy and tall cowslip we behold Arrayed in snowy white, or freckled gold. The verdant prospect cherishes our sight, Affording joy unmixed, and calm delight; The forest-walks and venerable shade, Wide-spreading lawns, bright rills, and silent glade, With a religious awe our souls inspire. And to the heavens our raptured thoughts aspire, To him who sits in majesty on high, Who turn'd the starry arches of the sky ; Whose word ordained the silver Thames to flow, Raised all the hills, and laid the valleys low ; Who taught the nightingale in shades to sing, And bid the sky-lark warble on the wing ; Makes the young steer, obedient, till the land, And lowing heifers own the milker's hand ; Calms the rough sea, and stills the raging wind, And rules the passions of the human mind. A MIDNIGHT HYMN. To thee, all glorious, ever-blessed power, I consecrate this silent midnight hour, While solemn darkness covers o'er the sky, And all things wrapp'd in gentle slumbers lie ; Unwearied let me praise thy holy name, And ev'ry thought with gratitude inflame, For the rich mercies which thy hands impart, Health to my flesh, and comfort to my heart. FRANCES THYNNE. may my prayers before thy throne arise, An humble but accepted sacrifice ! And when thou shalt my weary eyelids close, And to my body grant a soft repose, May my ethereal Guardian kindly spread His wings, and from the tempter screen my head ! Grant of celestial light some piercing beams, To bless my sleep and sanctify my dreams. THE DYING CHRISTIAN'S HOPE. When faint, and sinking to the shades of death, 1 gasp with pain for ev'ry lab'ring breath, may my soul by some blest foretaste know That she 's deliver'd from eternal woe ! May hope in Christ dispel each gloomy fear, And thoughts like these my drooping spirits cheer. What tho' my sins are of a crimson stain, My Saviour's blood can wash me white again : Tho' numerous as the twinkling stars they be, Or sands along the margin of the sea ; Or as smooth pebbles on some beachy shore, The mercies of th' Almighty still are more : He looks upon my soul with pitying eyes, Sees all my fears, and listens to my cries : He knows the frailty of each human breast, What passions our unguarded hearts molest, And for the sake of his dear dying Son, Will pardon all the ills that I have done. Arm'd with so bright a hope, I shall not fear To see my death hourly approach more near; But my faith strength'ning as my life decays, My dying breath shall mount to heav'n in praise. 5* 53 THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE, Named in the foregoing sketch, was also fond of rhyme, but deserves mention more from her munificent gift of the Arundelian marbles to the University of Oxford. She died in 1761. None of her verses within our reach, are worth room on our page. LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU. Though celebrated more for the bold wit and extreme cleverness of her letters, chiefly from Constantinople, where she accompanied her husband in his embassy, and from Italy, where she afterwards resided for the benefit of her health, Lady Mary followed the fashion of the day in writing - verses. These, though exhibiting the marked characteristics of her prose, had little poetical merit; while some of them were grossly offensive, from their unrestrained coarseness. During her residence at Twickenham, 1718, she became very intimate with her former corre- spondent, Pope ; but they soon quarrelled, and the irascible little poet, enraged by her contempt of his amorous declarations, covertly lampooned her and Lord Hervey, in his imitation of the first satire of the second book of Horace, to which she replied with great spirit and severity. To Lady Mary is due the high credit of introducing into England the Turkish practice of inoculation for the small-pox, after having had the courage to try the experiment upon her own infant son. Her letters were first published surreptitiously in 1763; but in 1803 they appeared with her other writings, under the sanction of her grandson, Lord Bute, in five volumes ; and in 1837 her great-grandson, Lord Wharncliffe, edited her whole works, with additional letters and facts. She was the eldest daughter of Evelyn Pierrepont, earl, afterwards duke of Kingston ; born at Thoresby, Nottinghamshire, in 1690, married to Mr. Edward Wortley Montagu in 1712, and died in 1762. HER ESTIMATE OF LOVE. (FROM AN EPISTLE TO THE EARL OF BURLINGTON.) Thus on the sands of Afric's burning plains However deeply made, no impress long remains ; (54) LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU. 55 The slightest leaf can leave its impress there, The strongest form is scattered by the air ; So yielding the warm temper of your mind, So touched by every eye, so tossed by every wind*, Oh ! how unlike the Heav'n my soul design'd ! Unseen, unheard, the throng around me move ; Not wishing praise, insensible of love ; No whispers soften, nor no beauties fire ; Careless I see the dance, and coldly hear the lyre. — So num'rous herds are driven o'er the rock ; No print is left of all the passing flock; So sings the wind around the solid stone ; So vainly beat the waves with fruitless moan. Tedious the toil and great the workman's care, Who dares attempt to fix impressions there : But should some swain, more skilful than the rest Engrave his name upon this marble breast, Not rolling ages could deface that name, Through all the storms of life 't is still the same ; Though length of years with moss may shade the ground, Deep, though unseen, remains the secret wound. REPLY TO POPE'S IMITATION OF THE FIRST SATIRE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE. Thine is just such an image of his pen, As thou thyself art of the sons of men : Where our own species in burlesque we trace, A sign-post likeness of the human race; That is at once resemblance and disgrace. # # # # # If he has thorns, they all on roses grow, Thine like rude thistles and mean brambles show; With this exception, that, though rank the soil, Weeds as they are, they seem produced by toil. 56 LADY MARYWORTLEY MONTAGU. Satire should, like a polished razor keen, Wound with a touch that's scarcely felt or seen ; Thine is an oyster-knife, that hacks and hews ; 'Tis the gross lust, of hate, that still annoys Without distinction as gross lust enjoys : Neither to folly nor to vice confined, The object of thy spleen is human kind : It preys on all who yield, or who resist, To thee 'tis provocation to exist. * # * # Not even youth and beauty can control The universal rancour of thy soul; Charms that might soften superstition's rage, Might humble pride, and thaw the ice of age. But how should'st thou by beauty's force be moved. No more for loving made than to be loved ? It was the equity of righteous Heaven That such a soul to such a form was given ; And shows the uniformity of fate, That one so odious should be born to hate. — When God created thee, one would believe He said the same as to the snake of Eve : " To human race antipathy declare, 'Twixt them and thee be everlasting war." But oh ! the sequel of the sentence dread, And whilst you bruise their heel, beware your head. Nor think thy weakness shall be thy defence The female scold's protection in offence. Sure 't is as fair to beat who cannot fight As 't is to libel those who cannot write ; And if thou draw'st thy pen against the law, Others a cudgel or a rod may draw. If none with vengeance yet thy crimes pursue, Or give thy manifold affronts their due ; LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU. 57 If limbs unbroken, skin without a stain, Unwhipt, unblanketed, unkicked, unslain, That wretched little carcase you retain, The reason is, not that the world wants eyes, But thou'rt so mean, they see and they despise. When fretted porcupine, with rancorous will From mounted back shoots many a harmless quill, Cool the spectators stand, and all the while Upon the angry little monster smile : Thus 't is with thee ; — while, impotently safe, You strike unwounding, we unhurt can laugh. Who but must laugh, this bully when he sees, A puny insect shivering at a breeze ? Or over-match'd by every blast of wind, Insulting and provoking all mankind. * * # * # Like the first, bold assassin's, be thy lot, Ne'er be thy guilt forgiven or forgot; But as thou hat'st, be hated by mankind, And with the emblem of thy crooked mind Marked on thy back, like Cain, by God's own hand, Wander like him accursed through the land. LINES WRITTEN SHORTLY AFTER HER MARRIAGE. While thirst of praise, and vain desire of fame In every age is every woman's aim ; With courtship pleased, of silly trifles proud, Fond of a train and happy in a crowd ; On each proud fop bestowing some kind glance, Each conquest owing to some loose advance ; While vain coquets affect to be pursued, And think they 're virtuous, if not grossly lewd : Let this great maxim be my virtue's guide : In part she is to blame who has been tried, He comes too near, xoho comes to be denied. 58 ANNA CHAMBER, COUNTESS TEMPLE EXPERIENCE LATE. Wisdom, slow product of laborious years, The only fruit that life's cold winter bears : Thy sacred seeds in vain in youth we lay, By the fierce storm of passion torn away. Should some remain in a rich generous soil, They long lie hid, and must be rais'd with toil ; Faintly they struggle with inclement skies, No sooner born than the poor planter dies. ANNA CHAMBER, COUNTESS TEMPLE. Who died 1777, was complimented by Walpole in an edition of her Poems, printed at Strawberry Hill, 1764 ; but scarcely deserves the praise he gives of having found " Sappho's lyre," though some of her verses are quite Lesbian in freedom. The following is the best speci- men of her wit I can find in the book : TO THE DUCHESS OF LEEDS, WHO, BEING ILL, DESIRED A COPY OF MY VERSES TO CURE HER. Phoebus, 'tis said, in ancient times, In physic dealt as well as rhymes ; Two sciences in one could blend, Which on each other must depend ; Like him, to touch the human heart, But modern quacks have lost the art, And reach of life the sacred seat ; They know not how its pulses beat, Yet take their fee and write their bill, In barb'rous prose resolved to kill. — But I, who long to save the life Of the best mother, friend, and wife, Send to your grace this mighty spell, — And now I hope you 're mighty well. MRS. ANNE STEELE, Daughter of a dissenting preacher at Broughton, in Hampshire, ranks with Toplady, Charles Wesley, Cowper and Newton, in that very difficult branch of composition, the devotional lyric. She also made an excellent version of the Psalms, which for literalness, smoothness, and evangelical power, may almost compare with that of Dr. Watts. None but those who have attempted a similar task, can appreciate the talent which she has displayed. Her compositions were, with few exceptions, all strictly devotional. She died about 1779, and her poems were col- lected shortly after and published in two volumes. We give the first lines of her most popular hymns, that the pious may know to whom they are indebted for the language so often employed by them in their offer- ings of praise, as some or all of them are to be found in the Hymn-books of most Christian denominations : " Lord, when my raptured thought surveys;" " The Saviour ! O what endless charms!" "Ye wretched, hungry, starving poor;" "Great God ! to thee my ev'ning song ;" " Come, weary souls with sins dis- trest ;" " Jesus, the spring of joys divine ;" " Thou only sov'reign of my heart ;" " Father of mercies, in thy word ;" " Dear Lord, and shall thy Spirit rest ;" " Deep are the wounds which sin hath made ;" " He lives, the great Redeemer lives !" " And will the Lord thus condescend ?" " Awake, awake the sacred song ;" " Should famine in the mourning field;" "Ye humble souls, approach your God;" "When blooming youth is snatched away ;" " O Thou whose tender mercy hears !" " Ah ! wretched, vile, ungrateful heart !" " And is the Gospel peace and love 1" " Dear refuge of my weary soul !" " When death appears before my sight;" "The Saviour calls, let ev'ry ear;" "Thou only source of true delight;" "Jesus, in thy transporting name;" "And did the holy and the just?" "To Jesus our exalted Lord;" "Jesus, what shall I do to show?" "Where is my God 1 ? does he retire!" "Come ye that love the Saviour's name ;" " How helpless guilty nature lies !" " Ye glitter- ing toys of earth, adieu !" &c. Many of these, though miserably mutilated by presumptuous hands, which had the impertinence to alter what they never could have written, will serve to make good our assertion of Mrs. Steele's merits as one of Israel's sweetest singers. We add one at length, which will compare (59) 60 MRS. ANNE STEELE. favourably with the hymn in the Spectator (generally ascribed to Addison, but which, as the editor believes, has been shown in the preface to An- drew Marvell's works to be his) : " When all thy mercies, O my God." A MORNING HYMN. Lord of my life, O may thy praise Employ my noblest powers, Whose goodness lengthens out my days, And fills the circling hours. Preserved by thy almighty arm, I pass'd the shades of night, Serene and safe from ev'ry harm, And see returning light. While many spent the night in sighs, And restless pain and woes ; In gentle sleep, I closed my eyes, And undisturbed repose. When sleep, death's semblance, o'er me spread, And I unconscious lay, Thy watchful care was round my bed, To guard me till the day. O let the same almighty care My waking hours attend; From ev'ry danger, ev'ry snare, My heedless steps defend. Smile on my minutes as they roll, And guide my future days; And let thy goodness fill my soul With gratitude and praise. RESIGNATION. Why breathes my anxious heart the frequent sigh ? Why from my weak eye drops the ready tear ? MRS. ANNE STEELE. 61 Is it to mark how present blessings fly ? Is it that griefs to come awake my fear ? O may I still with thankful heart enjoy The various gifts indulgent heaven bestows ; Nor let ungrateful diffidence destroy The present good with fear of future woes. Nor let me curious ask, if dark or fair My future hours, but in the hand divine With full affiance leave my every care ; Be humble Hope and Resignation mine. Celestial guests, your smile can cheer the heart, When melancholy spreads her deep'ning gloom ; O come, your animating power impart, And bid sweet flowers amid the desert bloom. # # * # # Be earth's quick changing scenes or dark or fair, On God's kind arm, O let my soul recline; Be heaven-born Hope, (blest antidote of care !) And humble cheerful Resignation mine. TO MY WATCH. Little monitor, by thee Let me learn what I should be - , Learn the round of life to fill, Useful and progressive still. Thou canst gentle hints impart How to regulate the heart; When I wind thee up at night, Mark each fault and set thee right, Let me search my bosom too, And my daily thoughts review; Mark the movements of my mind, Nor be easy till I find Latent errors brought to view, Till all be regular and true. ANNA WILLIAMS, Daughter of a surgeon in Wales, born 1706. Her father ruined himself in a vain endeavour to discover the longitude by magnetism, and afterwards became a pensioner at the Charter House. The daughter devoted herself to his care, and helped out their scanty means by her needle and her pen, though deprived of her sight by a cataract in 1746. Her virtuous piety won for her the esteem of Dr. Johnson and his wife, and they received her as an inmate of their home until her death in 1783. Garrick gave her a benefit amounting to £200, and under the patronage of Johnson she published Miscellanies in prose and verse, 1765, to which Dr. Johnson and several other friends con- tributed, and the sale of the work yielded her £100. Her verses are rather pleasing, and, in sentiment, correspond with her character. It is not easy to distinguish her pieces from others in the miscellanies; and what we give is at a venture. sonnet ^, to a lady of indiscreet virtue. While you, fair Anna, innocently gay, And free and open, all reserve disdain, Wherever Fancy leads securely stray, And conscious of no ill can fear no stain, Let calm Discretion guide with steady rein, Let early Caution twitch your gentle ear ; She '11 tell you Censure lays her wily train To blast those beauties which too bright appear. Ah me ! I see the monster lurking near, I know her haggard eye and pois'nous tongue : She scans your actions with malignant leer, Eager to wrest and represent them wrong ; Yet shall your conduct, circumspect and clear, Nor baleful touch, nor fangs envenomed, fear. (62) ELIZABETH CARTER. 63 ON A LADY SINGING. When Delia strikes the trembling string, She charms our list'ning ears ; But when she joins her voice to sing, She emulates the spheres. The feathered songsters round her throng, And catch the soothing notes ; To imitate her matchless song, They strain their little throats. The constant mournful-cooing doves, Attentive to her strain, All mindful of their tender loves, By list'ning sooth their pain. Soft were the notes by Orpheus played, Which once recalled his bride ; But had he sung like thee, fair maid, T^e nymph had scarcely died. ELIZABETH CARTER, Daughter of the Rev. Dr. Carter, was born at Deal, in 1717. She is best known by her elegant translation of Epictetus, whose whole works she edited, with a preface and notes displaying such extensive erudition as to win her great praise from the learned. Her Poems on Several Occasions were published in 1762, with commendations from Lords Littleton and Bath. She contributed Nos. 44 and 100 of the Rambler. She was never married, and died at the advanced age of 89. ODE TO WISDOM. The Solitary bird of night Thro' the pale shades now wings his flight, And quits the time-shook tower, 64 ELIZABETH CARTER. Where sheltered from the blaze of day, In philosophic gloom he lay, Beneath his ivy bower. With joy I hear the solemn sound, Which midnight echoes waft around, And sighing gales repeat : Fav'rite of Pallas ! I attend, And, faithful to thy summons, bend And bend at Wisdom's awful seat. She loves the cool, the silent eve, Where no false shows of life deceive, Beneath the lunar ray : Here Folly drops each vain disguise, Nor sports her gaily-coloured dyes, As in the glare of day. O Pallas ! queen of ev'ry art " That glads the sense or mends the heart," Blest source of purer joys ; In ev'ry form of beauty bright, That captivates the mental sight With pleasure and surprise; To thy unspotted shrine I bow, Assist thy modest, suppliant's vow, That breathes no wild desires : But, taught by thy unerring rules To shun the fruitless wish of fools, To nobler views aspires. Not Fortune's gem, Ambition's plume, Nor Cytherea's fading bloom, Be objects of my prayer ; Let av'rice, vanity, and pride. These glitt'ring envied toys divide, The dull rewards of care. ELIZABETH CARTER. 65 To me thy better gifts impart, Each moral beauty of the heart. By studious thought refined : For wealth, the smiles of glad content; For pow'r its amplest, best extent, An empire o'er my mind. When Fortune drops her gay parade, When Pleasure's transient roses fade, And wither in the tomb, Unchanged is thy immortal prize, Thy ever-verdant laurels rise In undecaying bloom. By thee protected, I defy The coxcomb's sneer, the stupid lie Of ignorance and spite ; Alike contemn the leaden fool, And all the pointed ridicule Of undiscerning wit. From envy, hurry, noise, and strife, The dull impertinence of life, In thy retreat I rest ; Pursue thee to thy peaceful groves, Where Plato's sacred spirit roves, In all thy graces drest. He bid Ilyssus' tuneful stream Convey the philosophic theme Of perfect, fair, and good : Attentive Athens caught the sound, And all her list'ning sons around In awful silence stood. Reclaimed, her wild licentious youth Confess'd the potent voice of truth, And felt its just control : 6* E 66 ELIZABETH CARTER. The passions ceased their loud alarms, And virtue's soft persuasive charms O'er all their senses stole. Thy breath inspires the poet's song, The patriot's free unbiassed tongue, The hero's gen'rous strife : Thine art retirement's silent joys, And all the sweet endearing ties Of still, domestic life, No more to fabled names confined To thee, supreme, all perfect mind, My thoughts direct their flight: Wisdom 's thy gift, and all her force From thee derived, unchanging source Of intellectual light ! O send her sure, her steady ray To regulate my doubtful way, Thro' life's perplexing road; The mists of error to control ; And thro' its gloom direct my soul To happiness and good! A NIGHT PIECE. While night in solemn shade invests the pole And calm reflection soothes the pensive soul, While reason undisturbed asserts her sway, And life's deceitful colours fade away ; To thee ! all-conscious Presence ! I devote This peaceful interval of sober thought: Here all my better faculties confine ; And be this hour of sacred silence thine! If, by the day's illusive scenes misled, My erring soul from virtue's path has strayed; ELIZABETH CARTER. 57 Snared by example, or by passion warmed, Some false delight my giddy sense has charmed ; My calmer thoughts the wretched choice reprove, And my best hopes are centered in thy love. Deprived of this can life one joy afford ? Its utmost boast a vain unmeaning word. But, ah ! how oft my lawless passions rove, And break those awful precepts I approve ! Pursue the fatal impulse I abhor, And violate the virtue I adore ! Oft when thy better Spirit's guardian care Warned my fond soul to shun the tempting snare, My stubborn will his gentle aid repressed, And checked the rising goodness in my breast; Mad with vain hopes, or urged by false desires, Stilled his soft voice, and quenched his sacred fires. With grief oppressed, and prostrate in the dust, Shouldst thou condemn, I own thy sentence just. But, oh ! thy softer titles let me claim, And plead my cause by Mercy's gentle name. Mercy ! that wipes the penitential tear, And dissipates the horrors of despair; From righteous justice steals the vengeful hour, Softens the dreadful attribute of power, Disarms the wrath of an offended God, And seals my pardon in a Saviour's blood ! All powerful Grace, exert thy gentle sway, And teach my rebel passions to obey ; Lest lurking Folly, with insidious art, Regain my volatile inconstant heart! Shall every high resolve Devotion frames Be only lifeless sounds and specious names ? Oh rather, while thy hopes and fears control, In this still hour, each motion of my soul, Secures its safety by a sudden doom, And be the soft retreat of sleep my tomb! 68 ELIZABETH CARTER. Calm let me slumber in that dark repose, Till the last morn its orient beam disclose : Then, when the great archangel's potent sound Shall echo through creation's ample round, Waked from the sleep of death, with joy survey The opening splendours of eternal day. WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT IN A THUNDER STORM. Let coward Guilt, with pallid Fear, To shelt'ring caverns fly, And justly dread the vengeful fate That thunders through the sky. Protected by that hand, whose law The threat'ning storms obey, Intrepid virtue smiles secure, As in the blaze of day. In the thick cloud's tremendous gloom, The lightning's lurid glare, It views the same all-gracious Power That breathes the vernal air. Thro' Nature's ever-varying scene, By different ways pursued, The one eternal end of Heaven Is universal good : With like beneficent effect O'er flaming aether glows, As when it tunes the linnet's voice, Or blushes in the rose. By reason taught to scorn those fears That vulgar minds molest, Let no fantastic terrors break My dear Narcissus' rest. MRS. GREVILLE. 69 Thy life may all the tend'rest care Of Providence defend; And delegated angels round Their guardian wings extend ! When thro' creation's vast expanse The last dread thunders roll, Untune the concord of the sphere, And shake the rising soul; Unmoved may'st thou the final storm Of jarring worlds survey, That ushers in the glad serene Of everlasting day ! MRS. GREVILLE, (Whose maiden name was Fanny M'Cartney), wife of Fulke Gre- ville, author of Maxims, Characters, &c, 1756, wrote, about 1753, her Prayer for Indifference, which was very popular, and provoked several clever replies, the best being by the Countess of C , supposed to be Isabella, Countess of Carlisle, who died 1793. Mrs. Crewe was the daughter of Mrs. Greville ; and her second son, Captain William Fulke Greville, died at Dover in 1837, aged 87, from which we infer that her marriage was antecedent to 1749. PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE. Oft I 've implored the gods in vain, And prayed till 1 've been weary ; For once I '11 try my wish to gain Of Oberon the Fairy. Sweet airy being, wanton sprite, That lurk'st in woods unseen, And oft by Cynthia's silver light Tripp'st gaily o'er the green; 7U MRS. GREVILLE. If e'er thy pitying heart was moved, As ancient stories tell, And for th' Athenian maid who loved Thou fbugtit'st a wondrous spell ; Oh deign once more t' exert thy pow'r ! Haply some herb or tree, Sov'reign as juice of western flower, Conceals a balm for me. I ask no kind return of love, No tempting charm to please ; Far from the heart those gifts remove That sighs for peace and ease : Nor peace nor ease the heart can know, Which, like the needle true, Turns at the touch of joy or woe, But, turning, trembles too. Far as distress the soul can wound, 'T is pain in each degree : 'T is bliss but to a certain bound ; Beyond, is agony. Take then this treacherous sense of mine Which dooms me still to smart; Which pleasure can to pain refine, To pains new pangs impart. Oh haste to shed the sacred balm ! My shattered nerves new string; And for my guest, serenely calm, The nymph Indifference bring. MRS. GREVILLE. '1 At her approach, see Hope, see Fear. See Expectation fly; And Disappointment in the rear, That blasts the promised joy. The tear which pity taught to flow The eye shall then disown ; The heart that melts for others' woe, Shall then scarce feel its own. The wounds which now each moment bleed, Each moment then shall close; And tranquil days shall still succeed To nights of calm repose. O fairy elf! but grant me this, This one kind comfort send; And so may never-fading bliss Thy flowery paths attend! So may the glow-worm's glimmering light Thy tiny footsteps lead To some new region of delight, Unknown to mortal tread : And be thy acorn goblet filled With heaven's ambrosial dew; From sweetest, freshest, flowers distilled, That shed fresh sweets for you! And what of life remains for me I '11 pass in sober ease ; Half-pleased, contented will I be, Content but half to please 72 COUNTESS OF CARLISLE. REPLY BY THE COUNTESS OF C — Without preamble, to my friend These hasty lines I 'm bid to send, Or give, if I am able: I dare not hesitate to say, Tho' I have trembled all the day — It looks so like a fable. Last night's adventure is my theme ; And should it strike you as a dream, Yet soon its high import Must make you own the matter such, So delicate, it were too much To be composed in sport. The moon did shine serenely bright, And ev'ry star did deck the night, While Zephyr fanned the trees; No more assailed my mind's repose, Save that yon stream, which murmuring flows, Did echo to the breeze. Enrapt in solemn thoughts I sate, Revolving o'er the turns of fate, Yet void of hope or fear ; When, lo ! behold an airy throng, With lightest steps, and jocund song, Surprised my eye and ear. A form superior to the rest His little voice to me addressed, And gently thus began : " I 've heard strange things from one of you, Pray tell me if you think 'tis true; Explain it if you can. COUNTESS OF CARLISLE. 73 " Such incense has perfumed my throne ! Such eloquence my heart has won ! I think I guess the hand : I know her wit and beauty too, But why she sends a prayer so new I cannot understand. " To light some flames, and some revive, To keep some others just alive, Full oft I am implored ; But, with peculiar power to please, To supplicate for nought but ease ! 'T is odd, upon my word ! " Tell her, with fruitless care I' ve fought : And though my realms, with wonders fraught, In remedies abound, No grain of cold indifference Was ever yet allied to sense In all my fairy round. " The regions of the sky I 'd trace, I'd ransack every earthly place, Each leaf, each herb, each flower, To mitigate the pangs of fear, Dispel the clouds of black despair. Or lull the restless hour. " I would be generous as I 'm just ; But I obey, as others must, Those laws which fate has made. My tiny kingdom how defend, And what might be the horrid end, Should man my state invade ? 7 74 LADY ANNE BARNARD. " 'T would put your mind into a rage, And such unequal war to wage Suits not my regal duty ! I dare not change a first decree : She 's doomed to please, nor can be free Such is the lot of Beauty!" This said, he darted o'er the plain, And after followed all his train No glimpse of him I find : But sure I am, the little sprite These words, before he took his flight, Imprinted on my mind. LADY ANNE BARNARD. We name this lady, because she was the writer of Auld Robin Gray, a ballad whose natural pathos and simple truth it is impossible not to feel. She wrote it in 1771, but, though it soon acquired the popularity which it will ever retain, the secret of its authorship was not discovered until she herself made it known to Sir Walter Scott, fifty years after- wards. She caught the touching melody from the lips of a Scotch farm-maiden, who sang it, as but too many of the old Scotch airs were set, to words far too " high kilted" for polite ears. She tells us, how- ever, that a shrewd critic pronounced it not to be a composition of one in humble life, from an expression in the second verse: " To mak the croun a pund ;" for an old Scotch pound is but twenty pence ! and at that time only the higher classes spoke familiarly of the pound sterling. Lady Barnard sent to Sir Walter two continuations of the ballad, but, as the reader will readily imagine from the completeness of the first part, they could not be otherwise than failures. She was the daughter of the Earl of Balcarras, born 1750, married Sir Andrew Barnard, librarian to George III., in 1793, and died 1825. LADY ANNE BARNARD. 75 AULD ROBIN GRAY. When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at harae, And a' the warld to sleep are gane ; The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my ee, When my gudeman lies sound by me. Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and socht me for his bride ; But saving a croun, he had naething else beside : To mak that croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea; And the croun and the pund were baith for me. He hadna been awa' a week but only twa, When my mother she fell sick, and the cow was stown awa' ; My father brak his arm, and young Jamie at the sea, And auld Robin Gray cam' a-conrtin' me. My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin ; I toiled day and nicht, but their bread I couldna win ; Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his ee } Said, Jennie, for their sakes, Oh, marry me ! My heart it said nay, for I looked for Jamie back ; But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wreck : The ship it was a wreck — why didna Jamie dee ? Or why do I live to say, Wae 's me ? My father argued sair : my mother didna speak ; But she lookit in my face till my heart was like to break : Sae they gied him my hand, though my heart was in the sea ; And auld Robin Gray was gudeman to me. I hadna been a wife a week but only four, When, sitting sae mournfully at the door, I saw my Jamie's wraith, for 1 couldna think it he, Till he said, I 'm come back for to marry thee. 76 MISS JANE ELLIOT. Oh, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say, We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away : I wish I were dead ! but I 'm no like to dee ; And why do I live to say, Wae 's me ? I gang like a ghaist, and I care na to spin ; 1 daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin ; But 1 '11 do my best a gude wife to be, For auld Robin Gray is kind unto me. We are led, from quoting- Auld Robin Gray, to insert two deservedly favourite songs to the tune and in imitation of the old Scotch ballad : The Flowers of the Forest. The first written on the battle of Cullo- den by MISS JANE ELLIOT, sister to Sir Gilbert Elliot of Minto; and the second by Miss Alicia Rutherford of Fermillie, afterwards MRS. COCKBURN, wife of Mr. Patrick Cockburn, Advocate, of Edinburgh. She died in 1794. The occasion of the verses was the pecuniary ruin of many of her friends by some unfortunate speculations. I. THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. I 've heard the lilting at our yowe-milking, Lasses a-lilting before the dawn of day ; But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning — The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. At buchts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning. The lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae ; Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing, Ilk ane lifts her leglen and hies her away. MRS. COCKBURN. 77 In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, The bandsters are lyart, and rankled, and gray ; At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching — The flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming, 'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play ; But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie — The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. Dule and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border ! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day ; The Flowers of the Forest, that foucht aye the foremost, The prime o' our land, are cauld in the clay. We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking, Women and bairns are heartless and wae ; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning — The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. II. THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. I 've seen the smiling Of Fortune beguiling; I 've felt all its favours, and found its decay : Sweet was its blessing, Kind its caressing; But now 'tis fled — fled far away. I 've seen the forest Adorned the foremost With flowers of the fairest most pleasant and gay ; Sae bonnie was their blooming! Their scent the air perfuming! But now they are withered and weeded away. 7* 73 MRS. ANNE HUNTER. I've seen the morning With gold the hills adorning, And loud tempest storming before the mid-day. I've seen Tweed's silver streams, Shining in the sunny beams, Grow drumly and dark as he rowed on his way. Oh, fickle Fortune, Why this cruel sporting? Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day ? Nae mair your smiles can cheer me, Nae mair your frowns can fear me ; For the Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. MRS. ANNE HUNTER, Sister of Sir Everard Home, and widow of the celebrated anatomist John Hunter. She was born in 1742, and died in 1821. She enjoyed the intimate friendship of Mrs. Carter, and wrote delightfully, especially songs, some of which were set to music by Haydn : a volume of her verses was published in 1802. The season comes when first we met, But you return no more ; Why cannot I the days forget, Which time can ne'er restore ? O days too sweet, too bright to last, Are you indeed for ever past ? The fleeting shadows of delight, In memory I ti'ace ; In fancy stop their rapid flight, MRS. ANNE HUNTER. And all the past replace : But, ah ! I wake to endless woes, And tears the fading visions close ! O tuneful voice ! I still deplore Those accents which, though heard no more, Still vibrate on my heart ; In echo's cave I long to dwell, And still would hear the sad farewell, When we were doomed to part. Bright eyes, O that the task were mine To guard the liquid fires that shine, And round your orbits play; To watch them with a vestal's care, And feed with smiles a light so fair, That it may ne'er decay! INDIAN DEATH SONG. The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day, But glory remains when their lights fade away. Begin, you tormentors ! your threats are in vain, For the son of Alknomook will never complain. Remember the arrows he shot from his bow, Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low. Why so slow ? Do you wait till I shrink from the pain ? No ; the son of Alknomook shall never complain. Remember the wood where in ambush we lay, And the scalps which we bore from your nation away. Now the flame rises fast ; you exult in my pain ; But the son of Alknomook can never complain. 80 MRS. ANNE HUNTER. I go to the land where my father is gone, His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son : Death comes, like a friend, to relieve me from pain ; And thy son, O Alknomook ! has scorned to complain. THE LOT OF THOUSANDS. When hope lies dead within the heart, By secret sorrow close concealed, We shrink lest looks or words impart What must not be revealed. 'Tis hard to smile when one would weep ; To speak when one would silent be ; To wake when one would wish to sleep, And wake to agony. Yet such the lot by thousands cast Who wander in this world of care, And bend beneath the bitter blast, To save them from despair. But Nature waits her guests to greet, Where disappointment cannot come ; And time guides with unerring feet The weary wanderers home. SUSANNA BLAMIRE, A native of Cumberland (1747), who resided some years with her sister, the wife of Col. Graham of Duchray in Perthshire, where she contracted a great fondness for the Scotch music and dialect. Some of her songs are unsurpassed in pathos and rhythmical beauty. She also wrote in the dialect of her native country. Miss Blamire was never married, and died in 1794. Her poetical works were published, with a biography by Mr. Patrick Maxwell, in 1842. WHAT AILS THIS HEART o' MINE? What ails this heart o' mine ? What ails this watery ee ? What gars me a' turn pale as death When I take leave o' thee ? When thou art far awa', Thou 'It dearer grow to me ; But change o' place and change o' folk May gar thy fancy jee. When I gae out at e'en, Or walk at morning air, Ilk rustling bush will seem to say I used to meet thee there. Then I'll sit down and cry, And live aneath the tree, And when a leaf fa's i' my lap, I'll ca't a word frae thee. I'll hie me to the bower That thou wi' roses tied, And where wi' mony a blushing bud I strove myself to hide. F ( 81 ) 82 SUSANNA BLAMIRE. I '11 doat on ilka spot Where I ha'e been wi' thee ; And ca' to mind some kindly word By ilka burn and tree. THE SILLER CROHN. And ye sail walk in silk attire, And siller hae to spare, Gin ye '11 consent to be his bride Nor think o' Donald mair. O wha wad buy a silken goun Wi' a poor broken heart ? Or what's to me a siller croun Gin frae my love I part ? The mind, whose every wish is pure, Far dearer is to me : And ere I'm forced to break my faith, I'll lay me down an' dee. For I hae pledged my virgin troth Brave Donald's fate to share ; An' he has gi'en to me his heart, Wi' a' its virtues rare. His gentle manners wan my heart, He gratefu' took the gift; Could I but think to seek it back, It wad be waur than theft. The longest life can ne'er repay The love he bears to me; And ere I 'm forced to break my troth, I '11 lay me down an' dee. SUSANNA BLAMIRE. 83 THE WAEFU' HEART. Gin living worth could win my heart, Ye would hae speak in vain; But in the darksome grave it's laid, Never to rise again. My waefu' heart lies low wi' his. Whose heart was only mine ; And O ! what a heart was that to love ! But I maun na repine. Yet O ! gin heaven in mercy soon Would grant the boon I crave, And take the life, now naething worth, Since Jamie 's in the grave. And, see, his gentle spirit comes To speed me on my way, Surprised, nae doubt, I still am here — Sair wondering at my stay. I come, I come, my Jamie dear; And O ! wi' what good will I follow wheresoe'er ye lead! Ye canna lead to ill. — She said ; and soon a deadly pale Her faded cheek possessed; Her waefu' heart forgot to beat, — Her sorrows soon to rest. AULD ROBIN FORBES. (IN THE CUMBERLAND DIALECT.) And auld Robin Forbes lies gien tern a dance, I pat on my speckets to see them aw prance ; I thout o' the days when I was but fifteen, And skipp'd wi' the best upon Forbes's green. 84 SUSANNA BLAMIRE. Of aw things that is I think thout is meast queer, It brings that that's by-past and sets it down here ; I see Willy as plain as I dui this bit leace, When he tuik his cwoat lappet and deeghted his face. The lasses aw wondered what Willy cud see In yen that was dark and hard featured leyke me ; And they wondered ay mair when they talked o' my wit, And slily telt Willy that cud'nt be it. But Willy he laughed, and he meade me his weyfe, And whea was mair happy thro' aw his long leyfe ? It's e'en my great comfort, now Willy is geane, That he offen said — nea pleace was leyke his awn heame ! I mind when I carried my wark to yon steyle, Where Willy was deyken, the time to beguile, He wad fling me a daisy to put i' my breast, And I hammered my noddle to mek out a jest. But merry or grave, Willy often wad tell There was none o' the leave that was leyke my awn sel ; And he spak what he thout, for I 'd hardly a plack When we married, and nobbet ae gown to my back. When the clock had struck eight I expected him heame, And wheyles went to meet him as far as Dumleane ; Of aw hours it telt, eight was dearest to me, But now when it streykes there's a tear i' my ee. O Willy ! dear Willy ! it never can be That age, time, or death, can divide thee and me ! For that spot on earth that 's aye dearest to me. Is the turf that has covered my Willie frae me. MRS. MARY ROBINSON, The daughter of an American sea-captain named Darby, was born at Bristol, 1758. She received her early education at the school then taught in that city by Miss Hannah More and her sisters. Her mar- riage, at fifteen, with Mr. Robinson, was the occasion of many mis- fortunes. His debts throwing him into prison, a just penalty for his vicious extravagance, she went upon the stage, for which she had long before an inclination, to gain a support. Her personal charms and talents opened for her a brilliant career, when she formed a criminal intimacy with the Prince of Wales, who soon abandoned her. The subsequent course of her life was one of shame, rendered the more melancholy by the exhibition of mental powers, which would have adorned a life of virtue. She died at Paris in 1800. She published Vancreza, a romance, several smaller prose pieces, and two volumes of miscellaneous poems. There were in her day many admirers of her writings, though they have since sunk into comparative forgetfulness, and justly, as they are not characterized by merit sufficient to warrant praise. The following specimen will be recognised as having fur- nished two songs, popular with the grandmothers of the present generation. STANZAS. k WRITTEN BETWEEN DOVER AND CALAIS. Bounding billow, cease thy motion, Bear me not so swiftly o'er; Cease thy roaring, foaming ocean, I will tempt thy rage no more. Ah ! within my bosom beating, Varying passions wildly reign ; Love with pure resentment meeting, Throbs by turns with joy and pain. 8 (85) 86 MRS. MARY ROBINSON. Joy, that far from foes I wander Where their taunts can reach no more ; Pain, that woman's heart grows fonder, When her dream of bliss is o'er. Love, by fickle fortune banished, Spurned by hope, indignant flies : Yet when love and hope are vanished, Restless memory never dies. Far I go, where fate may lead me, Far across the troubled deep ; Where no stranger's ear shall heed me, Where no eye for me shall weep. Proud has been my fatal passion, Proud my injured heart shall be ! While each thought, each inclination, Still shall prove me worthy thee. Not one sigh shall tell my story; Not one tear my cheek shall stain ; Silent grief shall be my glory, Grief that stoops not to complain. Let the bosom prone to ranging, Still by ranging seek a cure ; Mine disdains the thought of changing, Proudly destined to endure. Yet ere far from all I treasure, ***** ere I bid adieu; Ere my days of pain and measure, Take the song that 's still thy due. MRS. MARY ROBINSON. 87 Yet believe no servile passions Seek to charm thy vagrant mind ; Well I know thy inclinations Wav'ring as the passing wind. I have loved thee, dearly loved thee, Through an age of worldly woe ; How ungrateful I have proved thee, Let my mournful exile show. Power and splendour could not charm me, I no joy in wealth could see ; Nor could threats nor fears alarm me, Save the fear of losing thee ! When the storms of fortune pressed thee, I have wept to see thee weep ; When relentless cares disturbed thee, I have lulled those cares to sleep. When with thee, what ills could harm me ! Thou could'st every pang assuage ; But when absent, what could charm me ! Every moment seemed an age. Fare thee well ! ungrateful rover ! Welcome GallicCs hostile shore : Now the breezes waft me over, Now we meet to part no more. MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH Was the daughter of Mr. Turner of Surrey, and horn 1749. She lost her mother early, which misfortune was but poorly supplied by an ex- pensive, though careless education. She was extremely precocious, displaying from childhood the talents which made her afterwards one of the more graceful ornaments of English literature towards the close of the last century. On her father's proposing to marry again, she was induced by her friends to accept the hand of Mr. Smith, a young West India merchant of flattering fortunes, which she did at the age of 15, her bridegroom being only 21. Partly through extravagance and commercial reverses, Mr. Smith's affairs became greatly embarrassed, and he was not only reduced to poverty, but so pursued by vexatious law claims, that he was forced to reside abroad, after suffering im- prisonment, the wife sharing with affectionate devotion her husband's confinement and exile. Her self-sacrificing fidelity was not appreciated or returned, and in 1777 she was compelled to separate from Mr. Smith and devote herself to the support of her children, as she had for a long time supported him and them by her literary productions. She died in 1806. She wrote with great facility, but at the same time with ele- gance, as her numerous productions, both in prose and poetry, show. Her principal prose writings were novels : Romance of Real Life ; Emmeline, which she completed in eight months and published 1786; the next year Ethelinde, and in 1791, Celestina ; this was followed by Desmond, in which she so much favoured the principles of the French revolution as to lose much public credit, to regain which she portrayed substantial English life in her Old Manor House. She received the praises of Cowper and Hayley, both of whom knew her, and, more recently, of Sir Walter Scott, who has said of her : " While we allow high praise to the sweet and sad effusions of her muse, we cannot admit that by them alone she could ever have risen to the height of eminence which we are disposed to claim for her as authoress of her prose narra- tives." Her poetical compositions are distinguished by an easy grace. A sweet melancholy, never morbid though settled, but chastened by a hopeful (88) MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. 89 piety, sheds a touching charm over her verses. She had a keen per- ception of natural beauty, and her descriptions of rural scenery or cul- tivated gardens are ever true and full of sentiment. Some of her son- nets are among the best of the second class in our language, and a volume of them, we are told, "passed through eleven editions, besides being translated into French and Italian." We have given a longer sketch of this interesting lady than of some others, because her writings, though marked with elegance, judgment, and natural beauty, have fallen into such undeserved neglect, that they are rarely found except in libraries of collectors. The subjoined ex- tracts will justify our criticisms. SONNETS. TO THE MOON. Queen of the silver bow ! by thy pale beam, Alone and pensive, I delight to stray, And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream, Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way. And while I gaze, thy mild and placid light Sheds a soft calnrupon my troubled breast ; And oft I think, fair planet of the night ! That in thy orb the wretched may have rest ; The sufferers of the earth perhaps may go, Released by death, to thy benignant sphere ; And the sad children of despair and woe Forget, in thee, their cup of sorrow here. O ! that 1 soon may reach thy world serene, Poor wearied pilgrim — in this toiling scene ! THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHTINGALE. Sweet poet of the woods — a long adieu ! Farewell, soft minstrel of the earlv year! Ah ! 't will be long ere thou shalt sing anew, And pour thy music on the ' night's dull ear.' Whether on spring thy wandering flights await, Or whether silent in our groves you dwell, 90 MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. The pensive muse shall own thee for her mate, And still protect the song she loves so well. With cautious step the love-lorn youth shall glide Thro' the lone brake that shades thy mossy nest, And shepherd girls from eyes profane shall hide The gentle bird, who sings of pity best : For still thy voice shall soft affections move, And still be dear to sorrow, and to love ! THE CLOSE OF SPRING. The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove, Each simple flower which she had nursed in dew, Anemonies, that spangled every grove, The primrose wan, and hare-bell mildly blue. No more shall violets linger in the dell, Or purple orchis variegate the plain. Till Spring again shall call forth every bell, And dress with humid hands her wreaths again. — Ah ! poor humanity ! so frail, so fair, Are the fond visions of thy early day, Till tyrant passion and corrosive care Bid all thy fairy colours fade away! Another May new buds and flowers shall bring ; Ah ! why has happiness — no second Spring ? SHOULD THE LONE WANDERER. Should the lone wanderer, fainting on his way, Rest for a moment of the sultry hours, And though his path through thorns and roughness lay, Pluck the wild rose, or woodbine's gadding flowers ; Weaving gay wreaths, beneath some sheltering tree, The sense of sorrow he awhile may lose ; So have I sought thy flowers, fair Poesy ! So charmed my way with Friendship and the Muse. MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. 91 But darker now grows life's unhappy day, Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come : Her pencil sickening Fancy throws away, And weary hope reclines upon the tomb ; And points my wishes to that tranquil shore, Where the pale spectre Care pursues no more. TO NIGHT. I love thee, mournful sober-suited night, When the faint moon, yet lingering in her wane, And veiled in clouds, with pale uncertain light Hangs o'er the waters of the restless main. In deep depression sunk, th' enfeebled mind Will to the deaf, cold elements complain, And tell th' embosomed grief, however vain, To sullen surges and the viewless wind ; Though no repose on thy dark breast I find, I still enjoy thee, cheerless as thou art; For in thy quiet gloom th' exhausted heart Is calm, though wretched ; hopeless, yet resigned ; While to the winds and waves its sorrows given, May reach — though lost on earth — the ear of Heaven. TO TRANQUILLITY. In this tumultuous sphere, for thee unfit, How seldom art thou found — Tranquillity ! Unless 't is when with mild and downcast eye By the low cradles thou delight'st to sit Of sleeping infants, watching the soft breath, And bidding the sweet slumberers easy lie, Or sometimes hanging o'er the bed of death, Where the poor languid sufferer hopes to die. O beauteous sister of the halcyon peace ! I sure shall find thee in that heavenly scene 92 MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. Where care and anguish shall their power resign; Where hope alike and vain regret shall cease; And Memory, lost in happiness serene, Repeat no more — that misery has been mine ! WRITTEN IN A CHURCHYARD. Pressed by the Moon, mute arbitress of tides, While the loud equinox its power combines, The sea no more its swelling surge confines, But o'er the shrinking land sublimely rides. The wild blast, rising from the western cave, Drives the huge billows from their heaving bed ; Tears from their grassy tombs the village dead, And breaks the silent Sabbath of the grave ! With shells and sea-weed mingled, on the shore, Lo ! their bones whiten in the frequent wave ; But vain to them the winds and waters rave ; They hear the warring elements no more : While I am doomed, by life's long storm opprest, To gaze with envy on their gloomy rest. ENGLISH SCENE RY. (from "beachy head.") Haunts of my youth ! Scenes of fond day-dreams, 1 behold ye yet ! Where 't was so pleasant by thy northern slopes, To climb the winding sheep-path, aided oft By scattered thorns, whose spiny branches bore Small woolly tufts, spoils of the vagrant lamb, There seeking shelter from the noon-day sun : And pleasant, seated on the short soft turf, To look beneath upon the hollow way, While heavily upward moved the labouring wain, And stalking slowly by, the sturdy hind, MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. 93 To ease his panting team, stopped with a stone The grating wheel. Advancing higher still The prospect widens, and the village church But little o'er the lowly roofs around Rears its gray belfry and its simple vane; Those lowly roofs of thatch are half concealed By the rude arms of trees, lovely in spring; When on each bough the rosy tinctured bloom Sits thick, and promises autumnal plenty. For even those orchards round the Norman farms, Which, as their owners marked the promised fruit, Console them, for the vineyards of the south Surpass not these. Where woods of ash and beech, And partial copses fringe the green hill foot, The upland shepherd rears his modest home; There wanders by a little nameless stream That from the hill wells forth, bright now, and clear, Or after rain with chalky mixture gray, But still refreshing in its shallow course The cottage garden ; most for use designed, Yet not of beauty destitute. The vine Mantles the little casement ; yet the brier Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers ; And pansies rayed, and freaked, and mottled pinks, Grow among balm and rosemary and rue ; There honeysuckles flaunt, and roses blow Almost uncultured ; some with dark green leaves Contrast their flowers of pure unsullied white ; Others like velvet robes of regal state Of richest crimson ; while, in thorny moss Enshrined and cradled, the most lovely wear The hues of youthful beauty's glowing cheek. With fond regret I recollect e'en now 9i MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. In spring and summer, what delight I felt Among these cottage gardens, and how much Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush By village housewife or her ruddy maid, Were welcome to me ; soon and simply pleased. An early worshipper at Nature's shrine, I loved her rudest scenes — warrens, and heaths, And yellow commons, and birch-shaded hollows, And hedgerows bordering unfrequented lanes, Bowered with wild roses and the clasping woodbine. THE HOT-HOUSE ROSE. An early rose borne from her genial bower, Met the fond homage of admiring eyes, And while young Zephyr fanned the lovely flower, Nature and Art contended for the prize. Exulting Nature cried, " I made thee fair, 'T was I that nursed thy tender buds in dew ; I gave thee fragrance to perfume the air, And stole from beauty's cheek her blushing hue." " Cease, goddess, cease," indignant Art replied, " And ere you triumph, know that, but for me, This beauteous object of our mutual pride Had been no other than a vulgar tree. " I snatched her from her tardy mother's arms, Where sun-beams scorch and piercing tempests blow ; On my warm bosom nursed her infant charms, Pruned the wild shoot, and trained the straggling bough. " I watched her tender buds, and from her shade Drew each intruding weed with anxious care, Nor let the curling blight her leaves invade, Nor worm nor noxious insect harbour there. MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. " At length the beauty's loveliest bloom appears, And Art from Fame shall win the promis'd boon, While wayward April, smiling through her tears, Decks her fair tresses with the wreaths of June. " Then, jealous Nature, yield the palm to me, To me thy pride its early triumph owes ; Though thy rude workmanship produced the tree, 'Twas Education formed the perfect Rose." ODE TO THE MISSEL THRUSH. The winter solstice scarce is past, Loud is the wind, and hoarsely sound The mill-streams in the swelling blast, And cold and humid is the ground : When to the ivy that embowers Some pollard tree, or shelt'ring rock, The troop of timid warblers flock, And shudd'ring wait for milder hours. While thou ! the leader of their band, Fearless salut'st the opening year; Nor stay'st, till blow the breezes bland, That bid the tender leaves appear ! But on some tow'ring elm or pine, Waving elate thy dauntless wing, Thou joy'st thy love-notes wild to sing, Impatient of St. Valentine ! Oh, herald of the spring! while yet No harebell scents the woodland lane, Nor starwort fair, nox violet, Braves the bleak gust and driving rain : 'Tis thine, as through the copses rude, Some pensive wanderer sighs along, To soothe him with thy cheerful song, And tell of Hope and Fortitude ! % 96 MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. For thee, then, may the hawthorn Imsh, The elder, and the spindle tree, With all their various berries blush, And the blue sloe abound for thee ! For thee the coral holly grow, Its armed and glossy leaves among, And many a branched oak be hung With thy pellucid missteltoe. Still may thy nest, with lichen lined, Be hidden from the invading jay : Nor truant boy its covert find, To bear thy callow young away : So thou, precursor still of good, O herald of approaching spring, Shalt to the pensive wand'rer sing Thy song of Hope and Fortitude ! THE NAUTILUS. Where southern suns and winds prevail, And undulate the summer seas, The Nautilus expands his sail, And scuds before the fresh'ning breeze. Oft is a little squadron seen Of mimic ships, all rigged complete ; Fancy might think the fairy queen Was sailing with her elfin fleet. With how much beauty is designed, Each channel'd bark of purest white ! With orient pearl each cabin lined, Varying with every change of light. While with his little slender oars, His silken sail, and tapering mast, MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. 97 The dauntless mariner explores The dangers of the watery waste : Prepared, should tempests rend the sky, From harm his fragile bark to keep, He furls his sail, his oars lays by, And seeks his safety in the deep : Then safe in ocean's shelly bed, He hears the storm above him roar ; 'Mid groves of coral glowing red, Or rocks o'erhung with madrepore. So let us catch life's favouring gale : But if fate's adverse winds be rude, Take calmly in th' adventurous sail, And find repose in solitude. THE CRICKET. Little inmate, full of mirth, Chirping on my humble hearth ; Wheresoe'er be thine abode, Always harbinger of good, Pay me for thy warm retreat With a song most soft and sweet; In return thou shalt receive Such a song as I can give. Though in voice and shape they be Formed as if akin to thee, Thou surpassest, happier far, Happiest grasshoppers that are; Their's is but a summer-song, Thine endures the whiter long, Unimpaired, and shrill and clear, Melody throughout the year. G 98 ANNA SEWARD, Neither night nor dawn of day Puts a period to thy lay, Then, insect! let thy simple song Cheer the winter evening long; While, secure from every storm, In my cottage stout and warm, Thou shalt my merry minstrel be, And I delight to shelter thee. ANNA SEWARD, The daughter of the Rev. Thomas Seward, of Ergand, Derbyshire, born in 1747. Her first appearance as a poetess was in a collection of poems, published by Lady Miller, of Bath-Easton, and made up of con- tributions of her own, and friends who met at her house. She afterwards printed Elegiac Poems on the death of Major Andre, Captain Cook, &c. ; which, though in a tumid and laboured style, had considerable popularity, and won the favour of Dr. Darwin, who complimented her as "the inventress of epic elegy." In 1782, she published her "Louisa," a poetical romance. Having had some literary flirtations with Walter Scott, she left him at her death (in 1809) three volumes of her poems for publication ; but he did nol hesitate to condemn them as utterly unworthy of regard. She wrote a life of Dr. Darwin, in which she claims the first fifty lines of his " Botanic Gardens" as her own. She was very much overpraised in the beginning of her career, receiving the flattering title of " The Swan of Lichfield." We give the following as the best specimen of her talents. THE ANNIVERSARY. Ah, lovely Lichfield ! that so long hast shone In blended charms peculiarly thine own; Stately, yet rural ; through thy choral day, Though shady, cheerful, and though quiet, gay ; How interesting, how loved, from year to year, How more than beauteous did thy scenes appear! ANNA SEWARD. 99 Still as the mild Spring chased the wintry gloom, Devolved her leaves, aud waked her rich perfume, Thou, with thy fields and groves around thee spread, Lift'st, in unlessened grace, thy spiry head ; But many a loved inhabitant of thine Sleeps where no vernal sun will ever shine. Why fled ye all so fast, ye happy hours, That saw Honora's * eyes adorn these bowers ? These darling bowers, that much she loved to hail, The spires she called ' the Ladies of the Vale !' Fairest and best! — Oh! can I e'er forget To thy dear kindness my eternal debt ? Life's opening paths how tenderly it smoothed, The joys it heightened, and the pains it soothed ? No, no ! my heart its sacred memory bears, Bright 'mid the shadows of o'erwhelming years ; When mists of deprivation round me roll, 'Tis the soft sunbeam of my clouded soul. Ah, dear Honora! that remembered day, First on these eyes when shone thy early ray ! Scarce o'er my head twice seven gay springs had gone, Scarce five o'er thy unconscious childhood flown, When, fair as their young flowers, thy infant frame To our glad walls a happy inmate came. O summer morning of unrivalled light! Fate wrapt thy rising in prophetic white ! June, the bright month, when nature joys to wear The livery of the gay, consummate year, Gave that envermiled dayspring all her powers, Gemmed the light leaves, and glowed upon the flowers ; Bade her plumed nations hail the rosy ray With warbled orisons from every spray. * Honora Sneyd, the object of Major Andre's attachment, afterwards Mrs. Edgeworth, and mother of the distinguished novelist, Maria Edge- worth. 100 ANNA SEWARD. Purpureal Tempe, not to thee belong More poignant fragrance or more jocund song. Thrice happy day ! thy clear auspicious light Gave ' future years a tincture of thy white ;' Well may her strains thy votive hymn decree, Whose sweetest pleasures found their source in thee; The purest, best that memory explores, Safe in the past's inviolable stores. The ardent progress of thy shining hours Beheld me rove through Lichfield's verdant bowers, Thoughtless and gay, and volatile and vain, Circled by nymphs and youths, a frolic train ; Though conscious that a little orphan child Had to my parents' guidance, kind and mild, Recent been summoned, when disease and death Shed dark stagnation o'er her mother's breath. While eight sweet infants' wailful cries deplore What not the tears of innocence restore ; And while the husband mourned his widowed doom, And hung despondent o'er the closing tomb, To us this loveliest scion he consigned Its beauty blossoming, its opening mind. His heartfelt loss had drawn my April tears, But childish, womanish, ambiguous years Find all their griefs as vanishing as keen ; Youth's rising sun soon gilds the showery scene. On the expected trust no thought I bent, Unknown the day, unheeded the event. One sister dear, from spleen, from falsehood free, Rose to the verge of womanhood with me ; Gloomed by no envy, by no discord jarred, Our pleasures blended, and our studies shared; And when with day and waking thoughts they closed, On the same couch our agile limbs reposed. Amply in friendship by her virtues blest, I gave to youthful gaiety the rest; ANNA SEWARD. 101 Considering not how near the period drew, When that transplanted branch should meet our view, Whose intellectual fruits were doomed to rise, Food of the future's heart-expanding joys ; Born to console me when, by Fate severe, The much-beloved* should press a timeless bier, My friend, my sister, from my arms be torn, Sickening and sinking on her bridal morn ; While Hymen, speeding from this mournful dome, Should drop his darkened torch upon her tomb. 'Twas eve ; the sun in setting glory drest, Spread his gold skirts along the crimson west ; A Sunday's eve ! Honora, bringing thee, Friendship's soft Sabbath long it rose to me, When on the wing of circling seasons borne, Annual I hailed its consecrated morn. In the kind interchange of mutual thought, Our home myself, and gentle sister sought ; Our pleasant home,"]* round which the ascending gale Breathes all the freshness of the sloping vale ; On her green verge the spacious walls arise, View her fair fields, and catch her balmy sighs ; See her near hills the bounded prospect close, And her blue lake in glassy breadth repose. With arms entwined, and smiling as we talked, To the maternal room we careless walked, Where sat its honoured mistress, and with smile Of love indulgent, from a floral pile The gayest glory of the summer bower Culled for the new-arrived — the human flower, A lovely infant-girl, who pensive stood Close to her knees, and charmed us as we viewed. * Miss Sarah Seward, who died in her nineteenth year, and on the eve of marriage j" The bishop's palace at Lichfield. 9* 102 MRS. TIG HE. O ! hast thou marked the summer's buckled rose, When 'mid the veiling moss its crimson glows ? So bloomed the beauty of that fairy form, So her dark locks, with golden tinges warm, Played round the timid curve of that white neck, And sweetly shaded half her blushing cheek. O ! hast thou seen the star of eve on high, Through the soft dusk of summer's balmy sky Shed its green light,* and in the glassy stream Eye the mild reflex of its trembling beam ? So looked on us with tender, bashful gaze, The destined charmer of our youthful days ; Whose soul its native elevation joined To the gay wildness of the infant mind ; Esteem and sacred confidence impressed, While our fond arms the beauteous child caressed. MRS. TIGHE Was the daughter of the Rev. Mr. Blackford, county of Wicklow, Ireland, born in 1773, and died in 1810. Her history is little known, no authentic biography of her having been published ; but the inference from her writings is that her life was one of affliction, she being the victim of disease. Her principal work is an extremely elegant poem, " Psyche," in six cantos of Spenserian measure. It is a beautiful alle- gory, founded on the fable of Apuleius, describing the history of passion- ate Love and the Soul ; though it is but justice to say, that much of the allegory is her own, and that she has taken nothing amounting to plagiarism from the modern imitations of the Latin philosopher. Her imagination is warm, and her descriptions often voluptuous, though al- ways refined. Perhaps she has been somewhat diffuse ; but, taking her *The lustre of the brightest of the stars (says Miss Seward, in a note on her ninety-third sonnet) always appeared to me of a green hue; and they are so described by Ossian MRS. TIGHE. 103 altogether she is not equalled in classical elegance by any English female, and not excelled (in that particular) by any male English poet. She has the rare quality for a poetess of not sparing the pumice-stone, her verses being sedulously polished to the highest degree. She shows also her great taste in omitting obsolete words, the affectation of which so frequently disfigures imitations of the great master of English alle- gory. Her minor pieces are far inferior to her main work, though graceful, but pervaded by a painful, often religionless, despondency. It is of Mrs. Tighe that Moore writes in his touching song : " I saw thy form in youthful prime." FIRST VISIT OF LOVE TO PYSCHE. Wrapt in a cloud unseen by mortal eye, He sought the chamber of the royal maid ; There, lulled by careless soft security, Of the impending mischief nought afraid, Upon her purple couch was Psyche laid, Her radiant eyes a downy slumber sealed; In light transparent veil alone arrayed, Her bosom's opening charms were half revealed, And scarce the lucid folds her polished limbs concealed. A placid smile plays o'er each roseate lip, Sweet severed lips ! while thus your pearls disclose, That slumbering thus unconscious she may sip The cruel presage of her future woes ? Lightly, as fall the dews upon the rose, Upon the coral gates of that sweet cell The fatal drops he pours ; nor yet he knows, Nor, though a God, can he presaging tell How he himself shall mourn the ills of that sad spell ! Nor yet content, he from his quiver drew, Sharpened with skill divine, a shining dart : No need had he for bow, since thus too true His hand might wound her all-exposed heart; Yet her fair side he touched with gentlest art, 104 MRS. TIGHE. And half relenting on her beauties gazed ; Just then awaking with a sudden start Her opening eye in humid lustre blazed, Unseen he still remained, enchanted and amazed. The dart which in his hand now trembling stood, As o'er the couch he bent with ravished eye, Drew with its daring point celestial blood From his smooth neck's unblemished ivory : Heedless of this, but with a pitying sigh The evil done now anxious to repair, He shed in haste the balmy drops of joy O'er all the silky ringlets of her hair; Then stretched his plumes divine, and breathed celestial air Unhappy Psyche! soon the latent wound The fading roses of her cheek confess, Her eyes' bright beams, in swimming sorrows drowned, Sparkle no more with life and happiness, Her parent's fond exulting heart to bless ; She shuns adoring crowds, and seeks to hide The pining sorrows which her soul oppress, Till to her mother's tears no more denied, The secret grief she owns, for which she lingering sighed. A dream of mingled terror and delight Still heavy hangs upon her troubled soul, An angry form still swims before her sight, And still the vengeful thunders seem to roll; Still crushed to earth she feels the stern control Of Venus unrelenting, unappeased : The dream returns, she feels the fancied dole ; Once more the furies on her heart have seized, But still she views the youth who all her sufferings eased. MRS. TIGHE. 105 Of wonderous beauty did the vision seem, And in the freshest prime of youthful years ; Such at the close of her distressful dream A graceful champion to her eyes appears ; Her loved deliverer from her foes and fears She seems in grateful transport still to press ; Still his soft voice sounds in her ravished ears ; Dissolved in fondest tears of tenderness, His form she oft invokes her waking eyes to bless. Nor was it quite a dream, for as she woke, Ere heavenly mists concealed him from her eye, One sudden transitory view she took Of Love's most radiant bright divinity ; From the fair image never can she fly, As still consumed with vain desire she pines ; While her fond parents heave the anxious sigh, And to avert her fate seek holy shrines The threatened ills to learn by auguries and signs. PALACE OF LOVE. Increasing wonder filled her ravished soul, For now the pompous portals opened wide, There, pausing oft, with timid foot she stole Through halls high domed, enriched with sculptured pride, While gay saloons appeared on either side In splendid vista opening to her sight ; And all with precious gems so beautified, And furnished with such exquisite delight, That scarce the beams of heaven emit such lustre bright. The amethyst was there of violet hue, And there the topaz shed its golden ray, The chrysoberyl, and the sapphire blue As the clear azure of a sunny day, 106 MRS. TIG HE. Or the mild eyes where amorous glances play ; The snow-white jasper, and the opal's flame, The blushing ruby, and the agate gray, And there the gem which bears his luckless name Whose death by Phoebus mourned ensured him deathless fame. There the green emerald, there cornelians glow, And rich carbuncles pour eternal light, With all that India and Peru can show, Or Labrador can give so flaming- bright To the charmed mariner's half dazzled sight : The coral paved baths with diamonds blaze : And all that can the female heart delight Of fair attire, the last recess displays, And all that Luxury can ask, her eye surveys. Now through the hall melodious music stole, And self-prepared the splendid banquet stands, Self-poured the nectar sparkles in the bowl, The lute and viol touched by unseen hands Aid the soft voices of the choral bands ; O'er the full board a brighter lustre beams Than Persia's monarch at his feast commands : For sweet refreshment all inviting seems To taste celestial food, and pure ambrosial streams. But when meek Eve hung out her dewy star, And gently veiled with gradual hand the sky, Lo ! the bright folding doors retiring far, Display to Psyche's captivated eye All that voluptuous ease could e'er supply To soothe the spirits in serene repose : Beneath the velvet's purple canopy Divinely formed a downy couch arose, While alabaster lamps a milky light disclose. MRS. TIG HE. 107 Once more she hears the hymeneal strain ; Far other voices now attune the lay ; The swelling sounds approach, awhile remain. And then retiring faint dissolved away : The expiring lamps emit a feebler ray, And soon in fragrant death extinguished lie : Then virgin terrors Psyche's soul dismay, When through the obscuring gloom she nought can spy, But softly rustling sounds declare some Being nigh. Oh, you for whom I write ! whose hearts can melt At the soft thrilling voice whose power you prove, You know what charm, unutterably felt, Attends the unexpected voice of Love : Above the lyre, the lute's soft notes above, With sweet enchantment to the soul it steals And bears it to Elysium's happy grove ; You best can tell the rapture Psyche feels When Love's ambrosial lip the vows of Hymen seals. psyche's discovery of love. And now, with softest whispers of delight, Love welcomes Psyche still more fondly dear ; Not unobserved, though hid in deepest night, The silent anguish of her secret fear. He thinks that tenderness excites the tear By the late image of her parent's grief, And half offended seeks in vain to cheer, Yet, while he speaks, her sorrows feel relief, Too soon more keen to sting from this suspension brief Allowed to settle on celestial eyes Soft Sleep exulting now exerts his sway, From Psyche's anxious pillow gladly flies To veil those orbs, whose pure and lambent ray The powers of heaven submissively obey. 108 MRS. TIGHE. Trembling and breathless then she softly rose And seized the lamp, where it obscurely lay, With hand too rashly daring to disclose The sacred veil which hung mysterious o'er her woes. Twice, as with agitated step she went, The lamp expiring shone with doubtful gleam, As though it warned her from her rash intent : And twice she paused, and on its trembling beam Gazed with suspended breath, while voices seem With murmuring sound along the roof to sigh ; As one just waking from a troublous dream, With palpitating heart and straining eye, Still fixed with fear remains, still thinks the danger nigh. Oh, daring Muse ! wilt thou indeed essay To paint the wonders which that lamp could show ? And canst thou hope in living words to say The dazzling glories of that heavenly view ? Ah ! well I ween, that if with pencil true That splendid vision could be well exprest, The fearful awe imprudent Psyche knew Would seize with rapture every wondering breast, When Love's all potent charms divinely stood confest. All imperceptible to human touch, His wings display celestial essence light, The clear effulgence of the blaze is such, The brilliant plumage shines so heavenly bright That mortal eyes turn dazzled from the sight ; A youth he seems in manhood's freshest years ; Round his fair neck, as clinging with delight, Each golden curl resplendently appears, Or shades his darker brow, which grace majestic wears. Or o'er his guileless front the ringlets bright Their rays of sunny lustre seem to throw, MRS. TIG HE. 109 That front than polished ivory more white ! His blooming cheeks with deeper blushes glow Than roses scattered o'er a bed of snow : While on his lips, distilled in balmy dews, (Those lips divine that even in silence know The heart to touch) persuasion to infuse Still hangs a rosy charm that never vainly sues. The friendly curtain of indulgent sleep Disclosed not yet his eyes' resistless sway, But from their silky veil there seemed to peep Some brilliant glances with a softened ray, Which o'er his features exquisitely play, And all his polished limbs suffuse with light. Thus through some narrow space the azure day Sudden its cheerful rays diffusing bright, Wide darts its lucid beams, to gild the brow of night. His fatal arrows and celestial bow Beside the couch were negligently thrown, Nor needs the god his dazzling arms, to show His glorious birth, such beauty round him shone As sure could spring from Beauty's self alone ; The gloom which glowed o'er all of soft desire, Could well proclaim him Beauty's cherished son ; And Beauty's self will oft these charms admire, And steal his witching smile, his glance's living fire. Speechless with awe, in transport strangely lost Long Psyche stood with fixed adoring eye ; Her limbs immoveable, her senses tost Between amazement, fear, and ecstasy, She hangs enamoured o'er the Deity. Till from her trembling hand extinguished falls The fatal lamp — He starts — and suddenly Tremendous thunders echo through the halls, While ruin's hideous crash bursts o'er the affrighted walls. 10 110 MRS. TIGHK. JEALOUSY. Her spirits die, she breathes polluted air, And vaporous visions swim before her sight : His magic skill the sorcerer bids her share, And lo ! as in a glass, she sees her knight In bovver remembered well, the bower of loose Delight. But oh ! what words her feelings can impart ! Feelings to hateful envy near allied ! While on her knight her anxious glances dart : His plumed helmet, lo ! he lays aside ; His face with torturing agony she spied, Yet cannot from the sight her eyes remove ; No mortal knight she sees had aid supplied, No mortal knight in her defence had strove ; 'T was Love ! 't was Love himself, her own adored Love. Poured in soft dalliance at a lady's feet, In fondest rapture he appeared to lie, While her fair neck with inclination sweet Bent o'er his graceful form her melting eye, Which his looked up to meet in ecstasy. Their words she heard not ; words had ne'er exprest, What well her sickening fancy could supply, All that their silent eloquence confest, As breathed the sigh of fire from each impassioned breast. While thus she gazed, her quivering lips turn pale ; Contending passions rage within her breast, Nor ever had she known such bitter bale, Or felt by such fierce agony opprest. Oft had her gentle heart been sore distrest, But meekness ever has a lenient power From anguish half his keenest darts to wrest; Meekness for her had softened sorrow's hour, Those furious fiends subdued which boisterous souls devour. MRS. TIGHE . Ill For there are hearts that, like some sheltered lake, Ne'er swell with rage, nor foam with violence ; Though its sweet placid calm the tempests shake, Yet will it ne'er with furious impotence Dash its rude waves against the rocky fence, Which nature placed the limits of its reign : Thrice blest ! who feel the peace which flows from hence, Whom meek-eyed gentleness can thus restrain ; Whate'er the storms of fate, with her let none complain ! THE POWER OF LOVE TO BLESS. When pleasure sparkles in the cup of youth, And the gay hours on downy wing advance, Oh ! then 'tis sweet to hear the lip of truth Breathe the soft vows of love, sweet to entrance The raptured soul by intermingling glance Of mutual bliss ; sweet amid roseate bowers, Led by the hand of Love, to weave the dance, Or unmolested crop life's fairy flowers, Or bask in joy's bright sun through calm unclouded hours. Yet they, who light of heart in may-day pride Meet love with smiles and gaily amorous song, (Though he their softest pleasures may provide, Even then when pleasures in full concert throng) They cannot know with what enchantment strong He steals upon the tender suffering soul, What gently soothing charms to him belong, How melting sorrow owns his soft control, Subsiding passions hushed in milder waves to roll. When vexed by cares and harassed by distress, The storms of fortune chill thy soul with dread, Let Love, consoling Love ! still sweetly bless, And his assuasive balm benignly shed : 112 MRS. TIGHE. His downy plumage o'er thy pillow spread Shall lull thy weeping sorrows to repose ; To Love the tender heart hath ever fled, As on its mother's breast the infant throws Its sobbing face, and there in sleep forgets its woes. Oh ! fondly cherish then the lovely plant, Which lenient Heaven hath given thy pains to ease ; Its lustre shall thy summer hours enchant, And load with fragrance every prosperous breeze, And when rude winter shall thy roses seize, When nought through all thy bowers but thorns remain, This still with undeciduous charms shall please, Screen from the blast and shelter from the rain, And still with verdure cheer the desolated plain. Through the hard season Love with plaintive note Like the kind red-breast tenderly shall sing, Which swells mid dreary snows its tuneful throat, Brushing the cold dews from its shivering wing, With cheerful promise of returning spring To the mute tenants of the leafless grove. Guard thy best treasure from the venomed sting Of baneful peevishness ; oh ! never prove How soon ill-temper's power can banish gentle Love ! Repentance may the storms of passion cbase, And Love, who shrunk affrighted from the blast, May hush his just complaints in soft embrace, And smiling wipe his tearful eye at last : Yet when the wind's rude violence is past, Look what a wreck the scattered fields display ! See on the ground the withering blossoms cast ! And hear sad Philomel with piteous lay Deplore the tempest's rage that swept her young away. MRS. TIGHE. 113 The tears capricious beauty loves to shed, The pouting lip, the sullen silent tongue, May wake the impassioned lover's tender dread, And touch the spring that clasps his soul so strong ; But ah, beware ! the gentle power too long Will not endure the frown of angry strife ; He shuns contention, and the gloomy throng Who blast the joys of calm domestic life, And flies when discord shakes her brand with quarrels rife. Oh ! he will tell you that these quarrels bring The ruin, not renewal of his flame : If oft repeated, lo ! on rapid wing He flies to hide his fair but tender frame ; From violence, reproach, or peevish blame Irrevocably flies. Lament in vain ! Indifference comes the abandoned heart to claim, Asserts for ever her repulsive reign, Close followed by disgust and all her chilling train. Indifference, dreaded power ! what art shall save The good so cherished from thy grasping hand? How shall young Love escape the untimely grave Thy treacherous arts prepare ? or how withstand The insidious foe, who with her leaden band Enchains the thoughtless, slumbering deity ? Ah, never more to wake ! or e'er expand His golden pinions to the breezy sky, Or open to the sun his dim and languid eye. Who can describe the hopeless, silent pang With which the gentle heart first marks her sway ? Eyes the sure progress of her icy fang Resistless, slowly fastening on her prey ; Sees rapture's brilliant colours fade away, 10* H 114 MRS. TIGHE. And all the glow of beaming sympathy; Anxious to watch the cold averted ray That speaks no more to the fond meeting eye Enchanting tales of love, and tenderness, and joy. Too faithful heart! thou never canst retrieve Thy withered hopes : conceal the cruel pain ! O'er thy lost treasure still in silence grieve ; But never to the unfeeling ear complain : From fruitless struggles dearly bought refrain! Submit at once — the bitter task resign, Nor watch and fan the expiring flame in vain ; Patience, consoling maid, may yet be thine, Go seek her quiet cell, and hear her voice divine ! DELAY OF LOVE COMPENSATED. Two tapers thus, with pure converging rays, In momentary flash their beams unite, Shedding but one inseparable blaze Of blended radiance and effulgence bright, Self-lost in mutual intermingling light ; Thus, in her lover's circling arms embraced, The fainting Psyche's soul, by sudden flight, With his its subtlest essence interlaced ; Oh! bliss too vast for thought! by words how poorly traced! Fond youth ! whom Fate hath summoned to depart, And quit the object of thy tenderest love, How oft in absence shall thy pensive heart Count the sad hours which must in exile move, And still their irksome weariness reprove ; Distance with cruel weight but loads thy chains With every step which bids thee farther rove, While thy reverted eye, with fruitless pain, Shall seek the trodden path its treasure to regain. MRS. TI GH E. 115 For thee what rapturous moments are prepared ! For thee shall dawn the long expected day! And he who ne'er thy tender woes hath shared, Hath never known the transport they shall pay, To wash the memory of those woes away : The bitter tears of absence thou must shed, To know the bliss which tears of joy convey, When the long hours of sad regret are fled, And in one dear embrace thy pains compensated ! Even from afar beheld, how eagerly With rapture thou shalt hail the loved abode ! Perhaps already, with impatient eye, From the dear casement she hath marked thy road, And many a sigh for thy return bestowed : Even there she meets thy fond enamoured glance : Thy soul with grateful tenderness o'erflowed, Which firmly bore the hand of hard mischance, Faints in the stronger power of joy's o'erwhelming trance. SONNET. As one who late hath lost a friend adored, Clings with sick pleasure to the faintest trace Resemblance offers in another's face, Or sadly gazing on that form deplored, Would clasp the silent canvas to his breast : So muse I on the good I have enjoyed, The wretched victim of my hopes destroyed On images of peace I fondly rest, Or in the page, where weeping fancy mourns, I love to dwell upon each tender line, And think the bliss once tasted still is mine ; While cheated memory to the past returns, And, from the present leads my shivering heart Back to those scenes from which it wept to part. 116 MRS. TIG HE. TO TIME. Yes, gentle Time, thy gradual, healing hand Hath stolen from sorrow's grasp the envenomed dart ; Submitting to thy skill, my passive heart Feels that no grief can thy soft power withstand ; And though my aching breast still heaves the sigh, Though oft the tear swells silent in mine eye ; Yet the keen pang, the agony is gone; Sorrow and I shall part •, and these faint throes Are but the remnant of severer woes : As when the furious tempest is o'erblown, And when the sky has wept its violence, The opening heavens will oft let fall a shower, The poor o'ercharged boughs still drops dispense, And still the loaded streams in torrents pour. HAGAR IN THE DESERT. Injured, hopeless, faint, and weary, Sad, indignant, and forlorn, Through the desert wild and dreary, Hagar leads the child of scorn. Who can speak a mother's anguish, Painted in that tearless eye, Which beholds her darling languish, Languish unrelieved, and die. Lo ! the empty pitcher fails her, Perishing with thirst he lies, Death with deep despair assails her, Piteous as for aid he cries. From the dreadful image flying, Wild she rushes from the sight ■ In the agonies of dying Can she see her soul's delight r MRS. TIGHE. 117 Now bereft of every hope, Cast upon the burning ground, Poor, abandoned soul ! look up, Mercy have thy sorrows found. Lo ! the Angel of the Lord Comes thy great distress to cheer; Listen to the gracious word, See divine relief is near. " Care of Heaven ! though man forsake thee, Wherefore vainly dost thou mourn? From thy dream of woe awake thee, To thy rescued child return. "Lift thine eyes, behold yon fountain, Sparkling 'mid those fruitful trees ; Lo ! beneath yon sheltering mountain Smile for thee green bowers of ease. " In the hour of sore affliction God hath seen and pitied thee ; Cheer thee in the sweet conviction, Thou henceforth his care shalt be. " Be no more by doubts distressed, Mother of a mighty race ! By contempt no more oppressed, Thou hast found a resting place." — Thus from peace and comfort driven, Thou, poor soul, all desolate, Hopeless lay, till pitying Heaven Found thee, in thy abject state, O'er thy empty pitcher mourning 'Mid the desert in the world ; Thus, with shame and anguish burning, From thy cherished pleasures hurled : liy MRS. TIGHE. See thy great deliverer nigh, Calls thee from thy sorrow vain, Bids thee on his love rely, Bless the salutary pain. From thine eyes the mists dispelling, Lo ! the well of life he shows, In his presence ever dwelling, Bids thee find thy true repose. Future prospects rich in blessing Open to thy hopes secure ; Sure of endless joys possessing, Of an heavenly kingdom sure. ON RECEIVING A BRANCH OF MEZEREON "WHICH FLOWERED AT WOODSTOCK. DECEMBER, 1809. Odours of Spring, my sense ye charm With fragrance premature ; And, 'mid these days of dark alarm, Almost to hope allure. Methinks with purpose soft ye come To tell of brighter hours, Of May's blue skies, abundant bloom, Her sunny gales and showers. Alas ! for me shall May in vain The powers of life restore ; These eyes that weep and watch in pain Shall see her charms no more. No, no, this anguish cannot last! Beloved friends, adieu! The bitterness of death were past, Could I resign but you. TI G H E. 119 But oh ! in every mortal pang That rends my soul from life, That soul, which seems on you to hang Through each convulsive strife, Even now with agonizing grasp Of terror and regret To all in life its love would clasp Clings close and closer yet. Yet why, immortal, vital spark ! Thus mortally opprest ? Look up, my soul, through prospects dark, And bid thy terrors rest ; Forget, forego thy earthly part, Thine heavenly being trust : — Ah, vain attempt ! my coward heart Still shuddering clings to dust. Oh ye ! who soothe the pangs of death With love's own patient care, Still, still retain this fleeting breath, Still pour the fervent prayer: — And ye whose smile must greet my eye No more, nor voice my ear, Who breathe for me the tender sigh, And shed the pitying tear, Whose kindness (though far, far removed) My grateful thoughts perceive, Pride of my life, esteemed, beloved, My last sad claim receive ! Oh ! do not quite your friend forget, Forget alone her faults; And speak of her with fond regret Who asks your lingering thoughts. MRS. THRALE, (AFTERWARDS MRS. PIOZZI.) This is the lady with whose name Dr. Johnson has made us so familiar. Her maiden name was Hester Lynch Salusbury. She was born at Bodvel, Caernavonshire, where her father, John Salusbury, resided, in 1740. In 1763 she married Mr. Thrale, a wealthy brewer, in whose house Johnson, fro n being- a frequent visitor, at last became a resident. Three years after Mr. Thrale's death, which happened in 1781, she married, to the lexicographer's great displeasure, an Italian music-master, Piozzi. Shortly after her second marriage, she went with her husband to Florence, where she resided until their return to England, in 1788. While there, she contributed to the " Florence Miscellany," the joint production of a few English of both sexes, known as the Delia Cruscans, whom Gifford in his Baviad so sorely satirizes. She published, besides several other works, "Letters and Anecdotes of Johnson," 1786, a main object of the book being the glorification of herself with the Doctor's compliments during her first husband's lifetime, and, perhaps, a little revenge on him for having objected to her second marriage, some of the anecdotes exhibiting him not in the most favourable light. Piozzi died in 1809, but in 1819-20 his sprightly widow showed, not only that her physical elasticity was preserved, by dancing with great spirit at public balls, but that her sensibilities were yet warm, by falling in love with Conway, the handsome actor. Several of her love-letters to Conway were published in 1843, they having been found among his papers, and sold in New York as part of his effects after his suicide, January 1828. In one of these letters she tells him, that she writes "at three, four, five o'clock (in the morning,) with an octogenary pen; a heart twenty-six years old, and as H. L. P. feels it to be, all your own." From this the reader may infer the character of the notes. She was not without talent, though vain and volatile. Dr. Johnson said of her, in 1781, that "she was, if not the wisest woman in the world, undoubtedly one of the wittiest." Mrs. Piozzi died in 1821. Her first printed piece, 1766, an imitation of Fontaine, is subjoined as the best of her productions. MRS. THR ALE. 121 THE THREE WARNINGS. The tree of deepest root is found Least willing still to quit the ground; 'T was therefore said by ancient sages, That love of life increased with years So much, that in our latter stages, When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages, The greatest love of life appears. This great affection to believe, Which all confess, but few perceive, If old assertions can't prevail, Be pleased to hear a modern tale. When sports went round, and all were gay, On neighbour Dodson's wedding-day, Death called aside the jocund groom With him into another room, And looking grave — 'You must,' says he, 'Quit your sweet bride, and come with me.' ' With you ! and quit my Susan's side ? With you !' the hapless husband cried ; ' Young as I am, 't is monstrous hard ! Besides, in truth, I 'm not prepared : My thoughts on other matters go; This is my wedding-day, you know.' What more he urged I have not heard, His reasons could not well be stronger; So Death the poor delinquent spared, And left to live a little longer. Yet calling up a serious look, His hour-glass trembled while he spoke — • ' Neighbour,' he said, ' farewell ! no more Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour: And farther, to avoid all blame Of cruelty upon my name, 11 122 MRS. THRALE. To give you time for preparation, And fit you for your future station, Three several warnings you shall have, Before you 're summoned to the grave ; Willing for once I'll quit my prey, And grant a kind reprieve ; In hopes you'll have no more to say, But, when I call again this way, Well pleased the world will leave.' To these conditions both consented, And parted perfectly contented. What next the hero of our tale befell, How long he lived, how wise, how well, How roundly he pursued his course, And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse, The willing muse shall tell : He chaffered, then he bought and sold, Nor once perceived his growing old, Nor thought of Death as near : His friends not false, his wife no shrew, Many his gains, his children few, He passed his hours in peace. But while he viewed his wealth increase, While thus along life's dusty road, The beaten track content he trod, Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares, Uncalled, unheeded, unawares, Brought on his eightieth year. And now, one night, in musing mood, And all alone he sate, The unwelcome messenger of Fate Once more before him stood. Half-killed with anger and surprise, ' So soon returned !' old Dodson cries. MRS. THRALE. 123 ' So soon d' ye call it ?' Death replies : 'Surely, my friend, you're but in jest! Since I was here before 'T is six-and-thirty years at least, And you are now fourscore.' ' So much the worse,' the clown rejoined ; ' To spare the aged would be kind : However, see your search be legal ; And your authority — is 't regal? Else you are come on a fool's errand, With but a secretary's warrant.* Beside, you promised me Three Warnings, Which I have looked for nights and mornings ; But for that loss of time and ease, I can recover damages.' ' 1 know,' ci-ies Death, ' that at the best, I seldom am a welcome guest; But do n't be captious, friend, at least ; I little thought you 'd still be able To stump about your farm and stable : Your years have run to a great length: I wish you joy, though of your strength !' ' Hold,' says the farmer ' not so fast ! I have been lame these four years past.' ' And no great wonder,' Death replies : ' However, you still keep your eyes ; And sure, to see one's loves and friends, For legs and arms would make amends.' ' Perhaps,' says Dodson, ' so it might, But latterly I 've lost my sight.' 4 This is a shocking tale 't is true ; But still there 's- comfort left for you : * An allusion to the illegal warrant used against Wilkes, which was the cause of so much contention in its day. 124 MRS. BARBAULD. Each strives your sadness to amuse ; I warrant you hear all the news.' ' There 's none,' cries he ; ' and if there were, I 'm grown so deaf, I could not hear.' 'Nay, then,' the spectre stern rejoined, These are unjustifiable yearnings; If you are lame, and deaf, and blind, You 've had your Three sufficient Warnings ; So come along no more we '11 part ;' He said, and touched him with his dart. And now Old Dodson, turning pale, Yields to his fate — so ends my tale. MRS. BARBAULD. Anna Letitia, daughter of Dr. John Aikin, born at Kilworth Har- court, in Leicestershire, 1743. She received an excellent and liberal education from her accomplished father, and in her thirtieth year pub- lished a volume of miscellaneous poems, which ran through four editions in a twelvemonth. In 1774, she was married to the Rev. Rochemont Barbauld, a French preacher, who in 1802 succeeded Dr. Price in the charge of the Unitarian congregation of Newington Green. In 1775, she issued a volume of her Hymns in Prose for children. Besides her poetical works, she assisted her father in that well-known series of tales, Evenings at Home ; edited the correspondence of Richardson, with a life of the novelist ; wrote critical essays on Akenside and Col- lins, for editions of their works; and an introductory essay, with bio- graphical and critical notices, to a collection she made of British novel- ists, besides other pieces of less note. She died in 1825. Mrs. Barbauld's writings, the earliest as well as those of later date, are, as her niece Miss Lucy Aikin says, stored with proofs of her various and extensive reading, her imaginative powers rather increas- ing than diminishing with her years. Associated witli both her husband and father in the education of youth, she had a warm regard for chil- MRS. BARBAULD 125 dren, and some of her prose hymns are among her most poetical pro- ductions. Though high poetical talent cannot be ascribed to her, her versification is easy and graceful, winning for her many admirers, among whom may be reckoned Charles James Fox. The selections we 6ubjoin will exhibit the literary and moral traits of this amiable and industrious woman, in a good light. ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. I read God's awful name emblazon'd high, With golden letters on th' illumin'd sky; Nor less the mystic characters 1 see, Wrought in each flower, inscribed on ev'ry tree ; In ev'ry leaf that trembles to the breeze I hear the voice of God among the trees. With thee in shady solitudes I walk, With thee in busy crowded cities talk ; In every creature own thy forming power, In each event thy providence adore. Thy hopes shall animate my drooping soul, Thy precepts guide me, and thy fear control : Thus shall I rest, unmov'd by all alarms, Secure within the temple of thine anus, From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free, And feel myself omnipotent in thee. That when the last, the closing hour draws nigh, And earth recedes before my swimming eye ; When trembling on the doubtful edge of fate I stand, and stretch my view to either state ; Teach me to quit this transitory scene With decent triumph and a look serene ; Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high, And, having lived to thee, in thee to die. 11* 126 MRS. BARBAULD, HYMN. Jehovah reigns : let ev'ry nation hear, And at his footstool bow with holy fear ; Let Heaven's high arches echo with his name, And the wide peopled earth his praise proclaim ; Then send it down to hell's deep gloom resounding, Thro' all her caves in dreadful murmurs sounding. He rules with wide and absolute command O'er the broad ocean and the steadfast land : Jehovah reigns, unbounded and alone, And all creation hangs beneath his throne : He reigns alone ; let no inferior nature Usurp or share the throne of the Creator. He saw the struggling beams of infant light Shoot thro' the massy gloom of ancient night ; His spirit hushed the elemental strife, And brooded o'er the kindling seeds of life : Seasons and months began the long procession, And measured o'er the year in bright succession. The joyful sun sprung up th' ethereal way, Strong as a giant, as a bridegroom gay ; And the pale moon diffused her shadowy light Superior o'er the dusky brow of night ; Ten thousand glitt'ring lamps the skies adorning, Numerous as dew-drops from the womb of morning. Earth's blooming face with rising flowers he dressed, And spread a verdant mantle o'er her breast; Then from the hollow of his hand he pours The circling waters round her winding shores, The new-born world in their cool arms embracing, And with lost murmurs still her banks caressing;. MRS. BARBAULD. 127 At length she rose complete in finished pride, All fair and spotless, like a virgin bride : Fresh with untarnished lustre as she stood, Her Maker blessed his work, and called it good, The morning stars, with joyful acclamation, Exulting sung, and hailed the new creation. Yet this fair world, the creature of a day, Tho' built by God's right hand, must pass away ; And long oblivion creep o'er mortal things, The fate of empires, and the pride of kings : Eternal night shall veil their proudest story, And drop the curtain o'er all human glory. The sun himself, with weary clouds opprest. Shall in his silent, dark pavilion rest : His golden urn shall broke and useless lie, Amidst the common ruins of the sky ! The stars rush headlong in the wild commotion, And bathe their glitt'ring foreheads in the ocean. But fix'd, O God ! for ever stands thy throne ; Jehovah reigns, a universe alone ; Th' eternal fire that feeds each vital flame, Collected or diffused, is still the same. He dwells within his own unfathomed essence, And fills all space with his unbounded presence. But oh ! our highest notes the theme debase, And silence is our least injurious praise : Cease, cease your songs, the daring flight control, Revere him in the stillness of the soul ; With silent duty meekly bend before him, And deep within your inmost hearts adore nim. 128 MRS. BARBAULD. HYMN FOR EASTER-SUNDAY. Again the Lord of life and light Awakes the kindling ray ; Unseals the eyelids of the morn, And pours increasing day. O what a night was that which wrapt The heathen world in gloom ! Oh what a sun which broke this day, Triumphant from the tomb ! This clay be grateful homage paid, And loud hosannas sung; Let gladness dwell in ev'ry heart, And praise on ev'ry tongue. Ten thousand differing lips shall join To hail this welcome morn ; Which scatters blessings from its wings To nations yet unborn. Jesus, the friend of human kind, With strong compassion moved, Descended, like a pitying God, To save the souls he loved. The powers of darkness leagued in vain To bind his soul in death ; He shook their kingdom, when he fell, With his expiring breath. Not long the toils of hell could keep The hope of Judah's line ; Corruption never could take hold On aught so much divine. MRS. BARBAULD. 129 And now his conquering chariot wheels Ascend the lofty skies ; While broke, beneath his powerful cross, Death's iron sceptre lies. Exalted high at God's right hand, And Lord of all below, Thro' him is pard'ning love dispensed, And boundless blessings flow. And still for erring, guilty man, A brother's pity flows ; And still his bleeding heart is touched With memory of our woes. To thee, my Saviour and my King, Glad homage let me give ; And stand prepared like thee to die, With thee that I may live. Awake, my soul ! lift up thine eyes, See where thy foes against thee rise, In long array, a num'rous host; Awake, my soul, or thou art lost. Here giant Danger threat'ning stands, Mustering his pale terrific bands ; There Pleasure's silken banners spread, And willing souls are captive led. See where rebellious passions rage, And fierce desires and lusts engage; The meanest foe of all the train Has thousands and ten thousands slain. 130 MRS. BARBAULD. Thou tread'st upon enchanted ground, Perils and snares beset thee round ; Beware of all, guard ev'ry part, But most the traitor in thy heart. Come then, my soul, now learn to wield The weight of thine immortal shield ; Put on the armour from above Of heavenly truth and heavenly love. The terror and the charm repel, And powers of earth, and powers of hell, The man of Calvary triumph'd here ; Why should his faithful followers fear ? HYMN TO CONTENT. O thou, the Nymph with placid eye! O seldom found, yet never nigh ! Receive my temperate vow : Not all the storms that shake the pole, Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul, And smooth unaltered brow. O come in simple vest arrayed, With all thy sober cheer displayed, To bless my longing sight; Thy mien composed, thy even pace, Thy meek regard, thy matron grace, And chaste subdued delight. No more by varying passions beat, O gently guide my pilgrim feet To find thy hermit cell ; Where in some pure and equal sky Beneath thy soft indulgent eye The modest virtues dwell. MRS. BARBAULD. 131 Simplicity in attic vest, And Innocence with candid breast, And clear undaunted eye; And Hope, who points to distant years, Fair opening through this vale of tears A vista to the sky. There Health, thro' whose calm bosom glide The temperate joys in even tide, That rarely ebb or flow ; And Patience there, thy sister meek, Presents her mild unvarying cheek To meet the offered blow. Her influence taught the Phrygian sage A tyrant master's wanton rage With settled smiles to meet ; Inured to toil and bitter bread, He bow'd his meek submitted head, And kissed thy sainted feet. But thou, O Nymph, retired and coy ' In what brown hamlet dost thou joy To tell thy tender tale? The lowliest children of the ground, Moss-rose and violet blossom round, And lily of the vale. say what soft propitious hour 1 best may choose to hail thy power, And court thy gentle sway ? When Autumn, friendly to the Muse, Shall thy own modest tints diffuse, And shed thy milder day : When Eve, her dewy star beneath, Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe, And ev'ry storm is laid; 132 MRS. BARBAULD. If such an hour was e'er thy choice, Oft let me hear thy soothing voice Low whispering thro' the shade. TO WISDOM. O Wisdom! if thy soft control Can soothe the sickness of the soul, Can bid the warring passions cease, And breathe the calm of tender peace ; Wisdom ! I bless thy gentle sway, And ever, ever will obey. But if thou com'st with frown austere, To nurse the brood of care and fear; To bid our sweetest passions die, And leave us in their room a sigh ; Or if thine aspect stern have power To wither each poor transient flower That cheers this pilgrimage of woe, And diy the springs whence hope should flow; Wisdom, thine empire I disclaim, Thou empty boast of pompous name ! In gloomy shade of cloisters dwell, But never haunt my cheerful cell. Hail to pleasure's frolic train ! Hail to fancy's golden reign ! Festive mirth and laughter wild, Free and sportful as the child ! Hope with eager sparkling eyes, And easy faith and fond surprise ! Let these, in faiiy colours drest, For ever share my careless breast : Then, tho' wise I may not be, The wise themselves shall envy me. MRS. BARBAULD. J 33 ODE TO SPRING. Sweet daughter of a rough and stormy sire, Hoar Winter's blooming child, delightful Spring! Whose unshorn locks with leaves And swelling buds are crowned ; From the green islands of eternal youth (Crowned with fresh blooms and ever-springing shade,) Turn, hither turn thy step, O thou, whose powerful voice More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed Or Lydian flute, can soothe the madding winds, And through the stonny deep Breathe thy own tender calm. Thee, best beloved ! the virgin train await With songs and festal rites, and joy to rove Thy blooming wilds among, And vales and dewy lawns, With untired feet ; and cull thy earliest sweets To weave fresh garlands for the glowing brow Of him, the favoured youth That prompts their whispered sigh. Unlock thy copious stores ; those tender showers That drop their sweetness on the infant buds, And silent dews that swell The milky ear's green stem, And feed the flowering osier's early shoots ; And call those winds, which through the whispering boughs With warm and pleasant breath Salute the blowing flowers. 12 134 MRS. BARBAULD. Now let me sit beneath the whitening thorn, And mark thy spreading tints steal o'er the dale ; And watch with patient eye Thy fair unfolding charms. O nymph, approach ! while yet the temperate sun With bashful forehead, through the cool moist air Throws his young maiden beams, And with chaste kisses woos The earth's fair bosom ; while the streaming veil Of lucid clouds, with kind and frequent shade, Protects thy modest blooms From his severer blaze. Sweet is thy reign, but short : the red dog-star Shall scorch thy tresses, and the mower's scythe Thy greens, thy flowerets all, Remorseless shall destroy. Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewell; For O ! not all that Autumn's lap contains, Nor Summer's ruddiest fruit, Can aught for thee atone, Fair Spring ! whose simplest promise more delights Than all their largest wealth, and through the heart Each joy and new-born hope With softest influence breathes. HYMNS IN PROSE. BEHOLD THE SHEPHERD! Behold the shepherd of the flock, he taketh care for his sheep, he leadeth them among clear brooks, he guideth them to fresh pasture : if the young lambs are weary, he carrieth them in his arms ; if they wander, he bringeth them back. MRS. BARBAULD. 135 But who is the shepherd's Shepherd ? who taketh care for him ? who guideth him in the path he should go ? and, if he wander, who shall bring him back ? God is the shepherd's Shepherd. He is the shepherd over all; he taketh care for all ; the whole earth is his fold ; we are all his flock ; and every herb, and every green field is the pasture which he hath prepared for us. The mother loveth her little child ; she bringeth it up on her knees ; she nourisheth its body with food ; she feedeth its mind with knowledge ; if it is sick, she nourisheth it with tender love ; she watch eth over it when asleep ; she forgetteth it not for a moment; she teacheth it how to be good; she rejoiceth daily in its growth. But who is the parent of the mother ? who nourisheth her with good things, and watcheth over her with tender love, and remem- bereth her every moment ? Whose arms are about her to guard her from harm ? and if she is sick, who shall heal her ? God is the parent of the mother ; he is the parent of all, for he created all. All the men, and all the women who are alive in the wide world, are his children ; he loveth all, he is good to all. The king governeth his people ; he hath a golden crown upon his head, and the royal sceptre is in his hand ; he sitteth upon a throne, and sendeth forth his demands ; his subjects fear before him ; if they do well, he protecteth them from danger ; and if they do evil, he punisheth them. But who is the Sovereign of the king ? who commandeth him what he must do ? whose hand is reached out to protect him from danger ? and if he doeth evil, who shall punish him ? God is the sovereign of the king ; his crown is of rays of light, and his throne is amongst the stars. He is King of kings, and Lord of lords : if he biddeth us live, we live ; and if he biddeth us die, we die : his dominion is over all worlds, and the light of his countenance is upon all his works. God is our Shepherd, therefore we will follow him ; God is our Father, therefore we will love him ; God is our King, therefore we will obey him. 136 MRS. B A RB AULD WINTER. It is now Winter, dead Winter. Desolation and silence reign in the fields, no singing of birds is heard, no humming of insects. The streams murmur no longer ; they are locked up in frost. The trees lift up their naked boughs like withered arms into the bleak sky, the green sap no longer rises in their veins ; the flowers and the sweet-smelling shrubs are decayed to their roots. The sun himself looks cold and cheerless ; he gives light only enough to show the universal desolation. Nature, child of God, mourns for her children. A little while ago, and she rejoiced in her offspring: the rose shed its perfume upon the gale ; the vine gave its fruit ; her children were springing and blooming around her, on every lawn and every green bank. O Nature, beautiful Nature, beloved child of God, why dost thou sit mourning and desolate ? Has thy father forsaken thee, has he left thee to perish ? Art thou no longer the object of his care ? He has not forsaken thee, O Nature ; thou art his beloved child, the eternal image of his perfections ; his own beauty is spread over thee, the light of his countenance is shed upon thee. Thy children shall live again, they shall spring up and bloom around thee ; the rose shall again breathe its sweetness on the soft air, and from the bosom of the ground verdure shall spring forth. And dost thou not mourn, O Nature, for thy human births ; for thy sons and thy daughters that sleep under the sod ; and shall not they also revive ? Shall the rose and the myrtle bloom anew, and shall man perish ? Shall goodness sleep in the ground, and the light of wisdom be quenched in the dust, and shall tears be shed over them in vain ? They also shall live; their winter shall pass away; they shall bloom again. The tears of thy children shall be dried up when the eternal year proceeds. Oh come that eternal year ! MRS. BARBAULD. 137 THE HAPPY LAND. The rose is sweet, but it is surrounded with thorns ; the lily of the valley is fragrant, but it springeth up amongst the brambles. The spring is pleasant, but it is soon past : the summer is bright, but the winter destroyeth the beauty thereof. The rainbow is very glorious, but it soon vanisheth away : life is good, but it is quickly swallowed up in death. There is a land where the roses are without thorns, where the flowers are not mixed with brambles. In that land, there is eternal spring, and light without any cloud. The tree of life groweth in the midst thereof; rivers of pleasures are there, and flowers that never fade. Myriads of happy spirits are there, and surround the throne of God with a perpetual hymn. The angels with their golden harps sing praises continually, and the cherubim fly on wings of fire. This country is heaven ; it is the country of those that are good ; and nothing that is wicked must inhabit there. The toad must not spit its venom amongst turtle doves : nor the poisonous henbane grow amongst sweet flowers. Neither must any one that doeth ill enter into that good land. This earth is pleasant ; for it is God's earth, and it is filled with many delightful things. But that country is far better : there we shall not grieve any more, nor be sick any more, nor do wrong any more ; there the cold of winter shall not wither us, nor the heats of summer scorch us. 12* HELEN MAEIA WILLIAMS Was born in the north of England, 1762. Under the patronising care of Dr. Andrew Kippis, she began her literary career with the pub- lication of a metrical legend, Edwin and Elfrida, 1782; which she followed with an Ode to Peace, 1783; Peru, a poem, 1784; a collec- tion of Miscellaneous Poems in two volumes, 1780, the list of sub- scribers to which exceeds in number and character almost every other of the kind, containing nearly every name of any note at the period; a poem On the Slave Trade, 1788. Visiting France in 1788, and again in 1790, she published Letters from France, the aim of which was to advocate the doctrine of the Girondists; and in consequence was impri- soned in the Temple at Paris, by Robespierre. She also wrote Julia, a novel ; Narrative of Events in France during the year 1815 ; Let- ters on Events in France since the Restoration in 1815 ; a translation of HumboldCs and Bonpland^s Travels in America, 1814-21, 6 vols. 8vo. ; with numerous smaller poems. She died at Paris in 1827. Miss Williams possessed a strong mind, much historical acumen, and great industry, though her religious sentiments were not free from some errors of the period. As a poetess she had little more than some facility and the talent inseparable from a cultivated taste. One of her pieces has much favour as a devotional hymn : TRUST IN PROVIDENCE. Whilst thee I seek, protecting Power! Be my vain wishes stilled ; And may this consecrated hour With better hopes be filled. Thy love the power of thought bestowed, To thee my thoughts would soar : Thy mercy o'er my life has flowed ; That mercy I adore. (138) HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS. 139 In each event of life, how clear Thy ruling hand I see ! Each blessing to my soul most dear, Because conferred by thee. In ev'ry joy that crowns my days, In ev'ry pain I bear, My heart shall find delight in praise, Or seek relief in prayer. When gladness wings my favoured hour, Thy love my thoughts shall fill : Resigned, when storms of sorrow lower, My soul shall meet thy will. My lifted eye without a tear The gathering storm shall see ; My steadfast heart shall know no fear; That heart will rest on thee. No riches from his scanty store My lover could impart; He gave a boon I valued more, He gave me all his heart. His soul sincere, his generous worth, Might well this bosom move ; And when I asked for bliss on earth, I only meant his love. But now from me in search of gain From shore to shore he flies ; Why wander riches to obtain, W hen love is all I prize ? 140 HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS. The frugal meal, the lowly cot, If blest my love with thee ! That simple fare, that lowly lot, Were more than wealth to me. # # # # # The night is dark, the waters deep, Yet soft the billows roll; Alas! at every breeze I weep, The storm is in my soul. A P ARAPHRA S E. <: The day is thine, the night also is thine ; thou hast prepared the light and the sun. " Thou hast set all the borders of the earth ; thou hast made summer and winter." My God ! all nature owns thy sway, Thou giv'st the night, and thou the day ! When all thy loved creation wakes, When morning, rich in lustre, breaks, And bathes in dew the opening flower, To thee we owe her fragrant hour; And when she pours her choral song, Her melodies to thee belong! Or when, in paler tints arrayed, The evening slowly spreads her shade; That soothing shade, that grateful gloom, Can more than day's enliv'ning bloom, Still every fond and vain desire, And calmer, purer thoughts inspire ; From earth the pensive spirit free, And lead the softened heart to Thee. In ev'ry scene thy hands have dressed, In ev'ry form by thee impressed, Upon the mountain's awful head, Or where the shelt'ring woods are spread; MISS HANNAH MORE. 141 In ev'ry note that swells the gale, Or tuneful stream that cheers the vale, The cavern's depth, or echoing grove, A voice is heard of praise and love. As o'er thy work the seasons roll, And soothe, with change of bliss, the soul, Oh never may their smiling train Pass o'er the human scene in vain ! But oft, as on the charm we gaze, Attune the wond'ring soul to praise ; And be the joys that most we prize The joys that from thy favour rise! MISS HANNAH MORE Is too well known by her admirable religious writings, to need an extended biographical notice. She was born at Stapleton, Gloucester- shire, in 1745, and lived to the venerable age of 87. Her father care- fully educated her for the profession of teaching, which she practised in company with her sisters several years, when she entered upon her literary life. Her first publication was The Search after Happiness, a moral drama in rhyme, prepared as an exercise for young girls at her sisters' school. In 1776, she printed Sir Eldred of the Bower, a ballad, and a little poem, in imitation of Ovid's Metamorphoses, on a rock in Somersetshire, from which issues a red stream, called The Bleeding Rock, which had been written some years before. Mr. Cadell, the publisher, estimated the first as the equal of The Deserted Village, and was will- ing to pay her the same price Goldsmith received for that exquisite poem. Her talents gaining for her the friendship of Dr. Johnson (who met her first with a verse of her Morning Hymn on his lips), Ed- mund Burke, and Mr. Garrick (with whom and his family she became very intimate,) she grew bolder in adventure and attempted tragic com- positions. Her tragedy, Percy, was acted in 1777, with a prologue and epilogue by Garrick, and had a very successful run of many nights, the most distinguished wits of the day complimenting her on her merited 142 MISS HANNAH MORE. success, and four thousand copies of it being sold in a fortnight. A second tragedy, The Fatal Falsehood, though not so successful as Percy, was yet honourably received. Besides these she wrote another, The Inflexible Captive, (on the story ofRegulus,) which, she says herself, was an imitation of Metastasio, and not adapted to the stage. After the death of Garrick her sentiments became more pious, and she devoted herself almost entirely to religious writings, or such as might be useful among the poor. These she produced with such rapidity that her works iill six closely printed volumes, and among them are found her minor poem.-', The Bas Bleu, Florio, &c. When the Princess Charlotte was an inliint, she published a very able treatise, Hints towards forming the Character of a young Princess (1805), but, her biographer assures, without alto- gether convincing, us, not from any ambition to become the preceptress of the royal child. Retiring to the country, she employed herself in works of charity and various usefulness, until her death at Barley wood, 1832. Her prose writings are of the very highest order in thought and style. No stronger female mind, we might say none as strong, ever directed a pen. Her powers of analysis and disquisition were very great, and her Essay on St. Paul gives her rank among the best theologians of the age, while her writings for the young and the poor (Cheap Repository Tracts) are admirably adapted to do good, and in one of them, Parley the Por- ter, the allegory is very happy. The same praise cannot be given to her works in verse. They are soundly moral and judicious, but they lack poetic fire, nor is it easy to discover the secret of their early pop- ularity. Even her successful tragedy, though it has some striking scenes, must have owed more to the determined applauses of her very influential friends than to its dramatic merit. What we give is in her best manner. PATRIOTISM. (FROM THE INFLEXIBLE CAPTIVE.) Our country is a whole, my Publius, Of which we all are parts ; nor should a citizen Regard his interests as distinct from hers ; No hopes or fears should touch his patriot soul, But what affects her honour or her shame. E'en when in hostile fields he bleeds to save her, 'T is not his blood he loses, 't is his country's ; MISS HANNAH MORE. 143 He only pays her back a debt lie owes. To her he 's bound for birth and education : Her laws secure him from domestic feuds, And from the foreign foe her arms protect him. She lends him honours, dignity, and rank, His wrongs revenges, and his merit pays; And, like a tender and indulgent mother, Loads him with comforts, and would make his state As blessed as nature and the gods designed it. Such gifts, my son, have their alloy of pain, And let th' unworthy wretch, who will not bear His portion of the public burden, lose Th' advantages it yields; — let him retire From the dear blessings of a social life, And from the sacred laws which guard those blessings, Renounce the civilized abodes of man, With kindred brutes one common shelter seek In horrid wilds, and dens, and dreary caves, And with their shaggy tenants share the spoil ; Or if the savage hunters miss their prey, From scattered acorns pick a scanty meal ; — Far from the sweet civilities of life There let him live, and vaunt his wretched freedom ; While we, obedient to the laws that guard us, Guard them, and live or die, as they decree. A SUSPECTED WIFE. (FROM DOUGLAS.) Doug. Death to all my hopes ! Heart-rending word ! obedience ! what 's obedience ? 'T is fear, 't is hate, 't is terror, 't is aversion ; 'T is the cold debt of ostentatious duty, Paid with insulting caution ; paid to tell me How much you tremble to offend a tyrant So terrible as Douglas. — O, Elvvina — 144 MISS HANNAH MORE. While duty portions out the debt it owes, With scrupulous precision and nice justice, Love never measures, but profusely gives, Gives, like a thoughtless prodigal, its all, And trembles then, lest it has done too little. El. I'm most unhappy that my cares offend Dovg. True tenderness is less solicitous, Less prudent, and more fond ; th' enamoured heart, Conscious it loves, and blest in being loved. Reposes on the object it adores, And trusts the passion it inspires and feels. — Thou hast not learnt how terrible it is To feed a hopeless flame. — But hear, Elwina, Thou most obdurate, hear me. — El. Say, my lord, For your own lips shall vindicate my fame ; Since at the altar I became your wife, Can malice charge me with an act, a word, I ought to blush at ? Have I not still lived As open to the eye of observation, As fearless innocence should ever live? I call attesting angels to be witness, If in my open deed, or secret thought, My conduct, or my heart, they 've aught discerned Which did not emulate their purity. Dovg. This vindication ere you were accused, This warm defence, this warding off' attacks Ere they are made, and construing casual words To formal accusations, — trust me, madam, — Shows rather an alarmed and vigilant spirit, For ever on the watch to guard its secret. Than the sweet calm of fearless innocence. Who talked of guilt? Who testified suspicion ? El- Learn, sir, that virtue, while 'tis free from blame, Is modest, lowly, meek, and unassuming ; Not apt, like fearful vice, to shield its weakness MISS HANNAH MORE. 145 Behind the studied pomp of boastful phrase, Which swells to hide the poverty it shelters ; But when this virtue feels itself suspected, Insulted, set at nought, its whiteness stained, It then grows proud, forgets its humble worth, And rates itself above its real value. SCENES OF EARLY LOVE. (FROM the same.) Hubert, let my soul indulge its softness ! The hour, the spot, is sacred to Elwina. This was her favourite walk ; I well remember (For who forgets that loves as I have loved ?) 'T was in that very bower she gave that scarf, Wrought by the hand of love : she bound it on, And, smiling, cried, " Whate'er befall us, Percy, Be this the sacred pledge of faith between us." 1 knelt, and swore ; called every power to witness, No time nor circumstance should force it from me ! But vowed to lose my life and this together. Here I repeat my vow. O Hubert, Hubert ! to a soul enamoured There is a sort of local sympathy, Which, when we view the scenes of early passion, Paints the bright image of the object loved In stronger colours than remoter scenes Could ever paint it ; realizes shadow : Imbodies vacancy ; lends shape and being To airy fantasy ; substance to thought ; Fiction to truth ; and breath and voice to words ; Dresses the object up in all its charms ; Talks to it nearer, frames its answers kinder, And turns imagination into vision. 13 K 146 MISS HANNAH MORE. LOVE AND HONOUR. (FROM THE FATAL FALSEHOOD.) Julia. How many cares perplex the maid who loves ! Cares, which the vacant heart can never know. Vim fondly tremble for a brother's life; Orlando mourns the absence of a friend ; Guildford is anxious for a son's renown ; In my poor heart your various terrors meet, With added fears and fonder apprehensions: They all unite in me; I feel for all — His life, his fame, his absence, and his love; For he may live to see his native home, And he may live to bless a sister's hopes, May live to gratify impatient friendship, May live to crown a father's house with honour, May live to glory, yet be dead to love. Em. Forbear these fears; they wound my brother's honour; Julia! a brave man must be ever faithful; Cowards alone dare venture to be false ; Cowards alone dare injure trusting virtue, And with bold perjuries affront high Heaven. Julia. I know his faith, and venerate his virtues ; I know his heart is tender as 'tis brave, That all his father's worth, his sister's softness, Meet in his generous breast — and yet I fear — Who ever loved like me, and did not fear ? VIETI'E. (FROM THE SAME.) Or. What, wrong her virtue ? Ber. Still this cant of virtue ! This pomp of words, this phrase without a meaning ! I grant that honour 's something, manly honour ; I 'd fight, I 'd burn, I 'd bleed, I 'd die for honour ; But what's this virtue? MISS HANNAH MORE. 147 Or. Ask you what it is ? Why, 't is what libertines themselves adore ; 'T is that which wakens love and kindles rapture, Beyond the rosy lip or starry eye. Virtue! 'tis that which gives a secret force To common charms ; but to true loveliness Lends colouring celestial. Such its power, That she who ministers to guilty pleasures, Assumes its semblance when she most Avould please. Virtue ! 't is that ethereal energy Which gives to body spirit, soul to beauty. MORNING HYMN. Soft slumbers now mine eyes forsake; My powers are all renewed ; May my freed spirit too awake, With heavenly strength endued ! Thou silent murderer Sloth, no more My mind imprisoned keep; Nor let me waste another hour With thee, thou felon Sleep. Hark, O my soul, could dying men One lavished hour retrieve, Though spent in tears, and passed in pain, What treasures would they give ! But seas of pearl, and mines of gold, Were offered them in vain; Their pearl of countless price is lost;* And where 's- the promised gain? * See Matthew xiii. 46. 148 MISS HANNAH MORE. Lord, when thy day of dread account For squandered hours shall come, O let them not increase th' amount, And swell the former sum ! Teach me in health each good to prize, I, dying, shall esteem ; And every pleasure to despise I then shall worthless deem. For all thy wondrous mercies past My grateful voice I raise, While thus I quit the bed of rest, Creation's Lord to praise. UNOSTENTATIOUS VIRTUE. (FROM DAVID AND GOLIATH.) Jes. Let not thy youth be dazzled, O my son With deeds of bold emprise, as valour only Were virtue, and the gentle arts of peace, Of truth, and justice, were not worth thy care. When thou shalt view the splendours of the war, The gay caparison, the burnished shield, The plume-crowned helmet, and the glittering spear, Scorn not the humble virtues of the shade, Nor think that Heaven views only with applause The active merit and the busy toil Of heroes, statesmen, and the bustling sons Of public care. These have their just reward, In wealth, in honours, and the well-earned fame Their high achievements bring. * * * * O my son! The ostentatious virtues which still press For notice and for praise — the brilliant deeds MISS HANNAH MORE. 149 Which live but in the eye of observation — These have their meed at once. But there 's a joy To the fond votaries of fame unknown, To hear the still small voice of conscience speak Its whispering plaudit to the silent soul. Heaven notes the sigh afflicted goodness heaves ; Hears the low plaint by human ear unheard, And from the cheek of patient sorrow wipes The tear by mortal eye unseen or scorned. (FROM THE SAME.) Dav. And what is death? Is it so terrible to die, my brother ? Or grant it terrible, is it for that The less inevitable ? If, indeed, We could by stratagem elude the blow, When some high duty calls us forth to die, And thus for ever shun it, and escape The universal lot, — then fond self-love, Then cautious prudence, boldly might produce Their fine-spun arguments, their learned harangues, Their cobweb arts, their phrase sophistical, Their subtile doubts, and all the specious tricks Of selfish cunning labouring for its end. But since, howe'er protracted, death will come, Why fondly study, with ingenious pains, To put it off? — To breathe a little longer Is to defer our fate, but not to shun it. Small gain ! which wisdom, with indifferent eye, Beholds. Why wish to drink the bitter dregs Of life's exhausted chalice, whose last runnings, E'en at the best, are vapid ! Why not die (If Heaven so will) in manhood's opening bloom, When all the flush of life is gay about us ; 13* 150 MISS HANNAH MORE. When sprightly youth, with many a new-born joy, Solicits every sense ? so may we then Present a sacrifice, unmeet indeed, (Ah, how unmeet!) but less unworthy far, Than the world's leavings ; than a worn-out heart, By vice enfeebled, and by vain desires Sunk and exhausted ! ROMANCING. (FROM THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS.) Pas. To me, no joys could pomp or fame impart ; Far softer thoughts possessed my virgin heart. No prudent parent formed my ductile youth, Nor led my footsteps in the paths of truth. Left to myself to cultivate my mind, Pernicious novels their soft entrance find : Their poisonous influence led my mind astray : I sighed for something, what, I could not say. I fancied virtues which were never seen, And died for heroes who have never been ; I sickened with disgust at sober sense, And loathed the pleasures worth and truth dispense ; I scorned the manners of the world I saw ; My guide was fiction, and romance my law. Distempered thoughts my wandering fancy fill, Each wind a zephyr, and each brook a rill ; I found adventures in each common tale, And talked and sighed to every passing gale ; Conversed with echoes, woods, and shades, and bowers, Cascades, and grottoes, fields, and streams, and flowers. Retirement, more than crowds, had learned to please ; For treacherous leisure feeds the soft disease, There plastic fancy ever moulds at will Th' obedient image with a dangerous skill ; MISS HANNAH MORE. 151 The charming fiction, with alluring art, Awakes the passions, and ini'ects the heart. A fancied heroine, an ideal wife, I loathed the offices of real life. These all were dull and tame ; I longed to prove The generous ardours of unequal love ; Some marvel still my wayward heart must strike ; Or prince, or peasant, each had charms alike : Whate'er inverted nature, custom, law, With joy I courted, and with transport saw. In the dull walk of virtue's quiet round, No aliment my fevered fancy found, Each duty to perform observant still, But those which God and nature bade me fill. INDOLENCE. Till now, I 've slept on life's tumultuous tide, No principle of action for my guide. From ignorance my chief misfortunes flow ; I never wished to learn, or cared to know ; With every folly slow-paced time beguiled ; In size a woman, but in soul a child. In slothful ease my moments crept away, And busy trifles filled the tedious day, I lived extempore, as fancy fired, As chance directed, or caprice inspired ; Too indolent to think, too weak to choose, Too soft to blame, too gentle to refuse; My character was stamped from those around ; The figures they, my mind the simple ground. Fashion, with monstrous forms, the canvas strained, Till nothing of my genuine self remained ; My pliant soul from chance received its bent, And neither good performed, nor evil meant. 152 ANNE YEARSLY. From right to wrong, from vice to virtue thrown, No character possessing of its own. To shun fatigue I made my only law ; Yet every night my wasted spirits saw. No plan e'er marked the duties of the clay, Which stole in tasteless apathy away : No energy informed my languid mind ; No joy the idle e'er must hope to find. Weak indecision all my actions swayed; Tne day was lost before the choice was made. Though more to folly than to guilt inclined, A drear vacuity possessed my mind. Too old with infant sports to be amused, Unfit for converse, and to books unused, The wise avoided me : they could not hear My senseless prattle with a patient ear. I sought retreat, but found, with strange surprise, Retreat is pleasant only to the wise ; The crowded world by vacant minds is sought, Because it saves th' expense and pain of thought. ANNE YEARSLY, A milkwoman of Bristol, was brought to the knowledge of Miss Hannah More by her extreme poverty. On visiting her with relief, Miss More discovered in some scraps of poetry written by her, marks of talent; and enthusiastically employed her own literary skill and influ- ence to bring forward the object of her bounty as an authoress, bestowing upon her the Delia Cruscan pseudonym of Lnctilla; Anne, in return, n-lorifying her patroness as Stella. Miss More says, that she covered a thousand pages in correcting the pieces, and in letters of application on behalf of her poetical pet. Horace Walpole, Mrs. Montagu, Mrs. Bosca- wen, and a host of others, joined in the enterprise of securing laurels and pounds sterling for the genius of the pail. Her first collection of pieces ANNE YEARSLY. 153 passed through three editions, the subscribers to which were found in all classes, from the Duke to the tradesman; and the profits amounted to £600. From these facts our readers may guess the popularity of Lactilla at the time. The scheme turned out badly ; the woman was ungrateful and abusive, (" an odious creature," as Mr. Boscawen calls her) : she insisted upon her right to spend her profits as she pleased, acquired, Miss More says, bad habits, and soon sunk back to her original obscurity, from which we raise her for a moment, only because of the curiosity and interest she once excited. It is, of course, not possible to tell how much her writings are indebted to Miss More : yet they show very little of the character which might have been expected from her want of education, abounding in bombastic, but not erroneous, allusions to classic fables; Mel- pomene, Sisyphus, Tritons, Phoebus, &c. figuring in her lines as old and familiar acquaintances. It must be confessed, however, that, unless Miss More re-wrote all the pieces, " the milkwoman of Bristol" had no inconsi- derable talent, as may be seen from the characteristic extracts we give.* TO STELLA. (ON her accusing the author of flattery.) Excuse me, Stella, sunk in humble state, With more than needful awe I view the great ; No glossy diction e'er can aid the thought First stamped in ignorance with error fraught. My friends T 've praised — they stood in heavenly guise, When first I saw thee, and my mental eyes Shall in that heavenly rapture view thee still ; For mine 's a stubborn and a savage will ; No customs, maimers, nor soft arts I boast, On my rough soul your nicest rules are lost. Yet shall unpolished gratitude be mine, While Stella deigns to nurse the spark divine. * It is but fair to note that she made a plausible defence of herself in a preface to a fourth edition of her poems; and that in a second collection, published after the quariel, she proves herself not to have been entirely dependent upon Miss More for thought or language, the additional pieces being nearly as good as the first. It appears from one of them, that the Earl of Bristol stood sponsor for one of her children. 13* 154 ANNE YEARSLY. A savage pleads — let e'en her errors move. And your forgiving spirit melt in love. O cherish gentle Pity's lambent flame, From Heaven's own bosom the soft pleader came. Then deign to bless a soul, who'll ne'er degrade Your gift, tho' sharpest miseries invade. You I acknowledge next to bounteous heaven, Like his, your influence cheers whene'er ' tis given : Blest in dispensing, gentle Stella, hear My only short, but pity-moving prayer, That thy great soul may spare the rustic Muse, Whom science ever scorned, and errors still abuse. CLIFTON HILL. (WRITTEN IN JANUARY 1785.) In this lone hour, when angry storms dscend, And the chilled soul deplores her distant friend ; When all her sprightly fires inactive lie, And gloomy objects fill the mental eye ; When hoary Winter strides the northern blast, And Flora's beauties at his feet are cast; Earth by the grizzly tyrant desert made, The feathered warblers quit the leafless shade; Quit those dear scenes where life ard love began, And, cheerless seek the savage haunts of man. How mourns each tenant of the silent grove ! No soft sensation turns the heart to love ; No fluttering pulse awakes to Rapture's call ; No strain responsive aids the water's fall. The swain neglects the nymph, he knows not why, The nymph, indifferent, mourns the freezing sky; Alike insensible to soft desire, She asks no warmth but from the kitchen fire. Love seeks a milder zone ; half sunk in snow, Lactilla, shivering, tends her fav'rite cow; ANNE YEARSLY. 1^5 The bleating flocks now ask the bounteous hand, And crystal streams in frozen fetters stand. The beauteous red-breast, tender in her frame, Whose murder marks the fool with treble shame, Near the low cottage door, in pensive mood, Complains and mourns her brothers of the wood. Her song oft waked the soul to tender joys, All but his restless soul whose gun destroys ; For this, rough clown, long pains on thee shall wait, And freezing want avenge their hapless fate ; For these fell murders mayst thou change thy kind, In outward form as savage as in mind; Go be a bear of Pythagorean name, From man distinguished by thy hideous frame. — Though slow and pensive now the moments roll, Successive months shall from our torpid soul Hurry these scenes again ; the laughing hours Advancing swift, shall strew spontaneous flowers ; The early-peeping snowdrop, crocus mild, And modest violet grace the secret wild : Pale primrose, daisy, may-pole decking sweet And purple hyacinth together meet : All Nature's sweets in joyous circles move And wake the frozen soul again to love. The ruddy swain now stalks along the vale, And snuffs fresh ardour from the flying gale ; The landscape rushes on his untaught mind, Strong raptures rise, but raptures undefined ; He louder whistles, stretches o'er the green, By screaming milk-maids, not unheeded, seen ; The downcast look ne'er fixes on the swain, They dread his eye, retire, and gaze again. — 'T is mighty Love. — Ye blooming maids, beware, Nor the lone thicket with the lover dare. No high romantic rules of honour bind The timid virgin of the rural kind ; 156 MRS. GRANT. No conquest of the passions e'er was taught, Nor meed e'er given them for the vanquished thought ; To sacrifice, to govern or restrain, Or to extinguish, or to hug the pain, Was never theirs ; instead, the fear of shame Proves a strong bulwark and secures their fame ; Shielded by this, they flout, reject, deny, While mock disdain puts the fond lover by ; Unreal scorn, stern looks, affected pride, Awe the poor swain and save the trembling bride. MRS. GRANT, OF LAGGAN. This well-known lady, the widow of a Presbyterian clergyman of Inverness-shire, Scotland, whose Letters from the Mountains have been so generally and deservedly admired, published a volume of poems in 1801, which show the same talents that made her descriptions of scenery so graphic and delightful. She also wrote Memoirs of an American Lady, (Mrs. Schuyler, widow of Colonel Philip Schuyler, who died in 1757,) and An Essay on the Superstitions of the Scotch Highlanders. She died in 1838. We give her characteristic verses. ON A SPRIG OF HEATH. Flower of the waste ! the heath-fowl shuns For thee the brake and tangled wood — To thy protecting shade she runs, Thy tender buds supply her food ; Her young forsake her downy plumes, To rest upon thy opening blooms. MRS. GRANT. 157 Flower of the desert though thou art! The deer that range the mountain free, The graceful doe, the stately hart, Their food and shelter seek from thee ; The bee thy earliest blossom greets, And draws from thee her choicest sweets. Gem of the heath ! whose modest gloom Sheds beauty o'er the lonely moor ; Though thou dispense no rich perfume, Nor yet with splendid tints allure, Both valour's crest and beauty's bower Oft hast thou decked, a favourite flower. Flower of the wild ! whose purple glow Adorns the dusky mountain's side, Not the gay hues of Iris' bow, Nor garden's artful varied pride, With all its wealth of sweets could cheer, Like thee, the hardy mountaineer. Flower of his heart ! thy fragrance mild Of peace and freedom seem to breathe ; To pluck thy blossoms in the wild, And deck his bonnet with the wreath, Where dwelt of old his rustic sires, Is all his simple wish requires. Flower of his dear-loved native land! Alas, when distant far more dear ! When he from some cold foreign strand, Looks homeward through the blinding tear, How must his aching heart deplore, That home and thee he sees no more! 14 158 MRS. GRANT. Also a descr ption of THE HIGHLAND POOR. (FROM HER POEM OF THE HIGHLANDER.) Where yonder ridgy mountains bound the scene, The narrow opening glens that intervene Still shelter, in some lowly nook obscure One poorer than the rest — where all are poor ; Some widowed matron, hopeless of relief, Who to her secret breast confines her grief; Dejected sighs the wintry night away, And lonely muses all the summer day : Her gallant sons, who, smit with honour's charms. Pursued the phantom Fame through war's alarms, Return no more ; stretched on Hindostan's plain, Or sunk beneath the unfathomable main ; In vain her eyes the watery waste explore For heroes — fated to return no more ! Let others bless the morning's reddening beam, Foe to her peace — it breaks the illusive dream That, in their prime of manly bloom confest, Restored the long-lost warriors to her breast ; And as they strove, with smiles of filial love, Their widowed parent's anguish to remove, Through her small casement broke the intrusive day, And chased the pleasing images away ! No time can e'er her banished joys restore, For ah ! a heart once broken heals no more. The dewy beams that gleam from pity's eye, The ' still small voice' of sacred sympathy, In vain the mourner's sorrows would beguile, Or steal from weary woe one languid smile ; Yet what they can they do — 'the scanty store, So often opened for the wandering poor, JOANNA BAILLIE, 159 To her each cottager complacent deals, While the kind glance the melting heart reveals ; And still, when evening streaks the west with gold, The milky tribute from the lowing fold With cheerful haste officious children bring, And every smiling flower that decks the spring ; Ah ! little know the fond attentive train, That spring and flowerets smile for her in vain : Yet hence they learn to reverence modest woe, And of their little all a part bestow. Let those to wealth and proud distinction born, With the cold glance of insolence and scorn Regard the suppliant wretch, and harshly grieve The bleeding heart their bounty would relieve : Far different these ; while from a bounteous heart With the poor sufferer they divide a part; Humbly they own that all they have is given A boon precarious from indulgent Heaven : And the next blighted crop or frosty spring, Themselves to equal indigence may bring. JOANNA BAILLIE, Born at Bothwell, in Scotland, 1765, but long a resident at Hamp- stead, near London, where she now lingers out an extreme old age, venerable and beloved. Few writers have commanded a more affec- tionate and respectful admiration than she has enjoyed, as a willing tribute from her contemporaries, during her long literary career; and criticism has hushed its suspicions of her defects in a desire to appre- ciate her noble endeavours after a pure and elevated style. Walter Scott, who enjoyed her friendship, honoured her with the title of " the tenth Muse," and has celebrated her praise in these graceful lines : " the notes that rung From the wild harp, which silent hung 160 JOANNA BAILLIE. By silver Avon's holy shore, Till twice an hundred years rolled o'er; When she, the bold enchantress, came, With fearless hand, and heart on flame! From the pale willow snatched the treasure, And swept it with a kindred measure, Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove With Montfort's hate and Basil's love, Awakening at the inspired strain, Deemed their own Shakspeare lived again." This is high but extravagant encomium. In her dramatic writings, her aims are higher than the reach of her genius. The wish to display in each of her plays the effects of a single passion, has led her, against nature, to merge the individual in a character too general, overlook- ing the various minor motives and incidents which mingle with the master sentiment, and give a distinct separateness to each human being; like the expression of the countenance in different persons, who bear the human face, but are unlike even in their likeness to one another. Miss Baillie would have succeeded better in her delineations, as a didactic poet, than as a dramatist. Her best passages are those in which womanly feeling has its vent; but she does not comprehend the workings of a man's soul sufficiently to speak its language. Her tra- gedies, though read with pleasure in the closet, are not of sufficient acting capacity for the stage, and but one of them has gained admit- tance to the boards, — De Montfort, in which Kemble sustained the principal part for eleven nights; and afterwards Kean, both in England and this country. The latter pronounced it a fine poem, but not a suc- cessful play. Some of her sweetest and most striking passages occur in her Martyr; where her feminine appreciation of religion enables her to seize upon the noble sentiments which faith suggests. The piece suffers, however, when compared with Milman's on the same subject, or the truly tragic interest of Lockhart's powerful tale, Valerius. Her comedies are utter failures. Miss Baillie's miscellaneous poems are sufficient in number to fill a volume; and from these, with some of the songs in her plays, which have much metrical merit, we supply our specimens of her most pleas- ing manner. Her poem on The Kitten will lead the reader almost to suspect Wordsworth to have taken the hint of his exquisite lines on the same subject from that early piece of our authoress. JOANNA BAILLIE. 161 A BATTLE FIELD. (FROM ethwald.) ' So thus ye lie, who, with the morning sun, Rose cheerily, and girt your armour on With all the vigour, and capacity, And comeliness of strong and youthful men. Ye also, taken in your manhood's wane, With grizzled pates, from mates, whose withered hands For some good thirty years had smoothed your couch : Alas ! and ye whose fair and early growth Did give you the similitude of men Ere your fond mothers ceased to tend you still, As nurselings of their care, ye lie together!' ' Oh ! there be some Whose writhed features, fixed in all the strength Of grappling agony, do stare upon you, With their dead eyes half opened. And there be some struck through with bristling darts, Whose clenched hands have torn the pebbles up ; Whose gnashing teeth have ground the very sand. Nay, some I 've seen among those bloody heaps, Defaced and 'reft e'en of the form of men, Who in convulsive motion yet retain Some shreds of life more horrible than death.' THE PRISONER. (FROM THE SAME.) ' Ed. Doth the bright sun, from the high arch of heaven, In all his beauteous robes of fleckered clouds, And ruddy vapours, and deep glowing flames, And softly varied shades, look gloriously ? Do the green woods dance to the wind ? the lakes 14* L 162 JOANNA BAILLIE. Cast up their sparkling waters to the light ? Do the sweet hamlets in their bushy dells Send winding up to heaven their curling smoke On the soft morning air ? Do the flocks bleat, and the wild creatures bound In antic happiness ? and mazy birds Wing the mid air in lightly skimming bands ? Ay, all this is ; men do behold all this ; The poorest man. Even in this lonely vault, My dark and narrow world, oft do I hear The crowing of the cock so near my walls, And sadly think how small a space divides me From all this fair creation.' A BRAVE MAN'S DREAD OP DEATH- (FROM EA YNER.) ' Rayncr. Death is to me an awful thing ; nay, Father I fear to die. And were it in my power. By suffering of the keenest racking pains, To keep upon me still these weeds of nature, I could such things endure, that thou wouldst marvel, And cross thyself to see such coward bravery. For oh ! it goes against the mind of man To be turned out from its warm wonted home, Ere yet one rent admits the winter's chill.' This bell speaks with a deep and sullen voice : The time comes on apace with silent speed. Is it indeed so late ? (Looking at his watch.) It is even so. (Pausing and looking still at, the watch.) How soon time flies away ! yet, as I watch it, Methinks, by the slow progress of this hand, I should have lived an age since yesterday, And have an age to live. Still on it creeps, JOANNA BAILLIE. 163 Each little moment at another's heels, Till hours, days, years, and ages are made up Of such small parts as these, and men look back, Worn and bewildered, wondering how it is. Thou travellest like a ship in the wide ocean, Whicli hath no bounding shore to mark its progress ; Time ! ere long I shall have done with thee. When next thou leadest on thy nightly shades, Though many a weary heart thy steps may count, Thy midnight 'larum shall not waken me. Then shall J be a thing, at thought of which The roused soul swells boundless and sublime, Or wheels in wildness of unfathomed fears : A thought ; a consciousness ; unbodied spirit. Who but would shrink from this ? But wherefore shrink ? came we not thus to earth ? And he who sent, prepared reception for us. Ay, glorious are the things that are prepared, As we believe ! — yet, heaven pardon me ! 1 fain would skulk beneath my wonted covering, Mean as it is. Ah, Time ! when next thou fillest thy nightly term, Where shall I be ? Fye ! fye upon thee still ! E'en where weak infancy, and timorous age, And maiden fearfulness have gone before thee ; And where, as well as him of firmest soul, The meanly-minded and the coward are. Then trust thy nature, at the approaching push, The mind doth shape itself to its own wants, And can bear all things.' passing joy. (from orka.) 'Did'st thou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast, Winging the air beneath some murky cloud 164 JOANNA BA1LLIE. In the sunn'd glimpses of a stormy day, Shiver in silvery brightness ? Or boatman's oar, as vivid lightning, flash In the faint gleam, that like a spirit's path, Tracks the still waters of some sullen lake ? Or lonely tower, from its brown mass of woods, j Give to the parting of a wintry sun One hasty glance in mockery of the night Closing in darkness round it ? — Gentle friend ! Chide not her mirth, who was sad yesterday, And may be so to-morrow.' a woman's picture of country life. (from the same.*) ' Even now methinks Each little cottage of my native vale Swells out its earthen sides, upheaves its roof, Like to a hillock moved by lab'ring mole, And with green trail-weeds clamb'ring up its walls, Roses and every gay and fragrant plant, Before my fancy stands, a fairy bower. Ay, and within it too do fairies dwell. Peep thro' its wreathed window, if indeed The flowers grow not too close ; and there within Thou'lt see some half a dozen rosy brats, Eating from wooden bowls their dainty milk : — Those are my mountain elves. See'st thou not Their very forms distinctly ?' ' I '11 gather round my board All that heav'n sends to me of way-worn folks, And noble travellers, and neighb'ring friends, Both young and old. Within my ample hall, The worn-out man of arms, shall o'tiptoe tread, Tossing his grey locks from his wrinkled brow JOANNA BAIL LIE. 165 With cheerful freedom, as he boasts his feats Of days gone by. — Music we'll have ; and oft The bick'ring dance upon our oaken floors Shall, thund'ring loud, strike on the distant ear Of 'nighted travellers, who shall gladly bend Their doubtful footsteps towards the cheering din. Solemn, and grave, and cloistered, and demure We shall not be. Will this content ye, damsels ? Ev'ry season Shall have its suited pastime : even winter In its deep noon, when mountains piled with snow, And choked valleys from our mansion bar All entrance, and nor guest nor traveller Sounds at our gate ; the empty hall forsaking, In some warm chamber, by the crackling fire, We '11 hold our little, snug, domestic court, Plying our work with song and tale between/ THE BEACON. (FROM THE BEACON.) Aur. Make no excuse, I pray thee. How many leagues from shore may such a light By the benighted mariner be seen ? Bast. Some six or so, he will descry it faintly, Like a small star, or hermit's taper, peering From some caved rock that brows the dreary waste ; Or like the lamp of some lone lazar-house, Which through the silent night the traveller spies Upon his doubtful way. Viol. Fie on such images ! Thou should'st have liken'd it to things more seemly. Thou might'st have said the peasant's evening fire That from his upland cot, thro' winter's gloom, What time his wife their evening meal prepares, 166 JOANNA BAILLIE. Blinks on the traveller's eye and cheers his heart ; Or signal-torch, that from my lady's bower Tells wandering knights the revels are begun ; Or blazing brand, that from the vintage house O' long October nights, thro' the still air Looks rousingly.' THE FATHER AND HIS CHILD. (FROM THE SEPARATION.) ROVANI. Enter Rovani, followed by Nurse, carrying a sleeping infant. Come on, good Nurse ; thou need'st not be ashamed To show thy bantling, sleeping or awake A nobler, comelier, curly-pated urchin Ne'er changed the face of stern and warlike sire To tearful tenderness. — Look here, my Lord. garcio (turning eagerly round). The child ! my child ! (Lifting the mantle that covers it, and gazing on the infant.) Ay, there are cheeks and lips like roses glowing ; And, see, half-opened eyelids show within The dewy azure of his sleeping eyes, Like loopholes in a cloud. — Awake, sweet imp ! GARCIO. Nay, wake him not ; his sleep is beautiful. Let me support come to my stirring heart, And here be cradled, thing of wond'rous joy ! ( Taking the child.) Here, in the inmost core of beating life, JOANNA BAILLIE. 167 I'd lodge thee. Mine thou art! yes, thou art mine Here is my treasured being : thou wilt love me. (Laying Ids face close to the chiWs.) Blest softness ! little hand and little cheek ! This is a touch so sweet ! a blessed touch ! There is love in it ; love that will not change ! (Bursting into tears, while the Nurse takes the child again.) THE TRAVELLERS BY NIGHT. But yet more pleased, thro' murky air He spies the distant bonfire's glare ; And, nearer to the spot advancing, Black imps and goblins round it dancing ; And, nearer still, distinctly traces The featur'd disks of happy faces, Grinning and roaring in their glory, Like Bacchants wild of ancient story, And making murgeons to the flame, As it were play-mate of their game. Full well, I trow, could modern stage Such acting for the nonce engage, A crowded audience every night Would press to see the jovial sight; And this, from cost and squeezing free, November's nightly travelers see. Thro' village, lane, or hamlet going, The light from cottage window showing Its inmates at their evening fare, By rousing fire and earthenware — And pewter trenchers on the shelf, — Harmless display of worldly pelf! — ■ Is transient vision to the eye Of hasty trav'ller passing by ; 168 JOANNA BAILLIE. Yet much of pleasing imporl tells, And cherish'd in the fane} dwells, Where simple innocence and mirth Encircle still the cottage hearth. Across the road a fiery glare Doth blacksmith's open forge declare, Where furnace-blast, and measur'd din Of hammers twain, and all within, — The brawny mates their labour plying, From heated bar the red sparks flying, And idle neighbours standing by With open mouth and dazzled eye, The rough and sooty walls with store Of chains and horse-shoes studded o'er, — • An armory of sullied sheen, — All momently are heard and seen. Nor does he often fail to meet, In market town's dark narrow street, (Even when the night on pitchy wings The sober hour of bed-time brings,) Amusement. From the alehouse door, Having full bravely paid his score, Issues the tipsy artisan, With tipsier brother of the can, And oft to wile him homeward tries With coaxing words, so wond'rous wise ! The dame demure, from visit late, Her lantern borne before in state By sloven footboy, paces slow, With patten'd feet and hooded brow. Where the seam'd window-board betrays Interior light, full closely lays The eves-dropper his curious ear, Some neighbour's fire-side talk to hear-, JOANNA BAILLIE. 169 While, from an upper casement bending, A household maid, belike, is sending From jug or ever a slopy shower, That makes him homeward fleetly scour. From lower rooms few gleams are sent, From blazing hearth, thro' chink or rent ; But from the loftier chambers peer (Where damsels doff their gentle gear, For rest preparing,) tapers bright, Which give a momentary sight Of some fair form with visage glowing, With loosen'd braids and tresses flowing, Who, busied, by the mirror stands, With bending head and up-rais'd hands, Whose moving shadow strangely falls With size enlarged on roof and walls. Ah ! lovely are the things, I ween, By arrowy Speed's light glam'rie seen ! Fancy, so touch'd, will long retain That quickly seen, nor seen again. Yet this short scene of noisy coil But serves our trav'ller as a foil, Enhancing what succeeds, and lending A charm to pensive quiet, sending To home and friends, left far behind, The kindliest musings of his mind ; Or, should they stray to thoughts of pain, A dimness o'er the haggard train A mood and hour like this will throw, As vex'd and burthen'd spirits know. Night, loneliness, and motion are Agents of power to distant care ; To distance, not discard ; for then, Withdrawn from busy haunts of men, 15 170 JOANNA BAILLIE. Necessity to act suspended, The present, past, and future blended, Like figures of a mazy dance, Weave round the soul a dreamy trance, Till jolting stone, or turnpike gate Arouse him from the soothing state. The road, that in fair simple day Thro' pasture-land or corn-fields lay, A broken hedge-row's ragged screen Skirting its weedy margin green, — With boughs projecting, interlaced With thorn and briar, distinctly traced On the deep shadows at their back, That deeper sinks to pitchy black, Appearing oft to Fancy's eye, Like woven boughs of tapestrie, — Seems now to wind thro' tangled wood, Or forest wild, where Robin Hood, AVith all his outlaws, stout and bold, In olden days his reign might hold, Where vagrant school-boy fears to roam, The gypsy's haunt, the woodman's home. Yea, roofless barn and ruin'd wall, As passing lights upon them fall, When favour'd by surrounding gloom, The castle's ruin'd state assume. How many are the subtle ways, By which sly Night the eye betrays, When in her wild fantastic mood, By lone and wakeful trav'ller woo'd ! Shall I proceed ? O no ! for now Upon the black horizon's brow Appears a line of tawny light ; Thy reign is ended, witching Night! JOANNA BAILLIE. And soon thy place a wizard elf, (But only second to thyself In glamrie's art) will quickly take, Spreading o'er meadow, vale, and brake, Her misty shroud of pearly white : — A modest, tho' deceitful wight, Who in a softer, gentler way, Will with the wakeful fancy play, When knolls of woods, their bases losing, Are islands on a lake reposing, And streeted town, of high pretence, As rolls away the vapour dense, With all its wavy curling billows, Is but a row of pollard willows. — O no ! my trav'ller, still and lone, A far fatiguing way hath gone ; His eyes are dim, he stoops his crest, And folds his arms, and goes to rest THE KITTEN. Wanton droll, whose harmless play Beguiles the rustic's closing day, When drawn the evening fire about, Sit aged Crone and thoughtless Lout, And child upon his three-foot stool, Waiting till his supper cool ; And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose, As bright the blazing fagot glows, Who, bending to the friendly light, Plies her task with busy sleight ; Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces, Thus circled round with merry faces. Backward coiled, and crouching low, With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe, 171 172 JOANNA BAILLIE. The housewife's spindle whirling round, Or thread, or straw, that on the ground Its shadow throws, by urchin sly Held out to lure thy roving eye ; Then, onward stealing, fiercely spring Upon the futile, faithless thing. Now, wheeling round, with bootless skill, Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still, As oft beyond thy curving side Its jetty tip is seen to glide ; Till, from thy centre starting fair, Thou sidelong rearest with rump in air, Erected stiff, and gait awry, Like madam in her tantrums high : Though ne'er a madam of them all, Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall, More varied trick and whim displays, To catch the admiring stranger's gaze. The featest tumbler, stage-bedight, To thee is but a clumsy wight, Who every limb and sinew strains To do what costs thee little pains ; For which, I trow, the gaping crowd Requites him oft with plaudits loud. But, stopped the while thy wanton play, Applauses, too, thy feats repay : For then beneath some urchin's hand, With modest pride thou takest thy stand, While many a stroke of fondness glides Along thy back and tabby sides. Dilated swells thy glossy fur, And loudly sings thy busy purr, As, timing well the equal sound, Thy clutching feet bepat the ground, JOANNA BAILLIE. And all their harmless claws disclose, Like prickles of an early rose ; While softly from thy whiskered cheek Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek. But not alone by cottage-fire Do rustics rude thy feats admire; The learned sage, whose thoughts explore The widest range of human lore, Or, with unfettered fancy, fly Through airy heights of poesy, Pausing, smiles with altered air To see thee climb his elbow chair, Or, struggling on the mat below, Hold warfare with his slippered toe. The widowed dame, or lonely maid, Who in the still, but cheerless shade Of home unsocial, spends her age, And rarely turns a lettered page; Upon her hearth for thee lets fall The rounded cork, or paper-ball, Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch The ends of ravelled skein to catch, But lets thee have thy wayward will, Perplexing oft her sober skill, Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent, In lonely tower or prison pent, Beviews the coil of former days, And loathes the world and all its ways ; What time the lamp's unsteady gleam Doth rouse him from his moody dream, Feels, as thou gambolest round his seat, His heart with pride less fiercely beat, And smiles, a link in thee to find That joins him still to living kind. Whence hast thou then, thou witless Puss, The magic power to charm us thus? 15* 173 174 JOANNA BAILLIE. Is it, that in thy glaring eye And rapid movements we descry, While we at ease, secure from ill, The chimney-corner snugly fill, A lion, darting on the prey, A tiger, at his ruthless play ? Or is it, that in thee we trace, With all thy varied wanton grace, An emblem viewed with kindred eye, Of tricksy, restless infancy ? Ah ! many a lightly sportive child, Who hath, like thee, our wits beguiled, To dull and sober manhood grown, With strange recoil our hearts disown Even so, poor Kit! must thou endure, When thou becomest a cat demure, Full many a cuff* and angry word, Chid roughly from the tempting board. And yet, for that thou hast, I ween, So oft our favoured playmate been, Soft be the change which thou shalt prove When time hath spoiled thee of our love ; Still be thou deemed, by housewife fat, A comely, careful, mousing cat, Whose dish is, for the public good, Replenished oft with savoury food. Nor, when thy span of life is past, Be thou to pond or dunghill cast; But gently borne on good man's spade, Beneath the decent sod be laid, And children show, with glistening eyes, The place where poor old Pussy lies. REVEILLE. Up ! quit thy bower, late wears the hour, Long have the rooks caw'd round thy tower; JOANNA B A ILLIE. On flower and tree, loud hums the bee, The wilding kid sports merrily : A day so bright, so fresh, so clear, Shineth when good fortune's near. Up! Lady fair, and braid thy hair, And rouse thee in the breezy air; The lulling stream, that soothed thy dream, Is dancing in the sunny beam ; And hours so sweet, so bright, so gay, Will waft good fortune on its way. Wished-for gales the light vane veering, Better dreams the dull night cheering; Lighter heart the morning greeting, Things of better omen meeting ; Eyes each passing stranger watching, Ears each feeble rnmour catching, Say he existeth still on earthly ground, The absent will return, the long, long lost be found. In the tower the ward-bell ringing, In the court the carols singing ; Busy hands the gay board dressing, Eager steps the threshold pressing, Open'd arms in haste advancing, Joyful looks thro' blind tears glancing; The gladsome bounding of his aged hound, Say he in truth is here, our long, long lost is found. Hymned thanks and beedsmen praying, With sheathed sword the urchin playing; Blazoned hall with torches burning, Cheerful morn in peace returning ; 175 176 JOANNA BAIL LIE. Converse sweet that strangely borrows Present bliss from former sorrows, O who can tell each blessed sight and sound, That says, he with us bides, our long, long lost is found. SONG. Where distant billows meet the sky r A pale dull light the seamen spy, As spent they stand and tempest-tost, Their vessel struck, their rudder lost ; While distant homes where kinsmen weep, And graves full many a fathom deep, By turns their fitful, gloomy thoughts portray : " 'T is some delusion of the sight, Some northern streamer's paly light." " Fools !" saith rous'd Hope with gen'rous scorn, " It is the blessed peep of morn, And aid and safety come when comes the day." And so it is; the gradual shine Spreads o'er heaven's verge its lengthened line : Cloud after cloud begins to glow, And tint the changeful deep below ; Now sombre red, now amber bright, Till upward breaks the blazing light; Like floating fire the gleamy billows burn : Far distant on the ruddy tide, A black'ning sail is seen to glide; Loud bursts their eager joyful cry, Their hoisted signal waves on high, And life and strength and happy thoughts return. JOANNA BAILLIE. 177 THE CHOUGH AND THE CROW. The chough and crow to roost are gone, The owl sits on the tree, The hush'd wind wails with feeble moan, Like infant charity. The wild-fire dances on the fen, The red star sheds its ray, Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men ! It is our op'ning day. Both child and nurse are fast asleep, And closed is every flower, And winking tapers faintly peep High from my Lady's bower : Bewilder'd hinds with shorten'd ken Shrink on their murky way, Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men ! It is our op'ning day. Nor board nor garner own we now, Nor roof nor latched door, INTor kind mate, bound by holy vow To bless a good man's store ; Noon lulls us in a gloomy den, And night is grown our day, Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men ! And use it as ye may. The gliding fish that takes his play In shady nook of streamlet cool, Thinks not how waters pass away, And summer dries the pool. M 178 JOANNA BAILLIE. The bird beneath his leafy (Ionic. Who trills his carol, loud and clear, Thinks not how soon his verdant home The lightning's breath may sear. Shall I, within my bridegroom's bower, With braids of budding roses twined, Look forward to a coining hour When he may prove unkind ? The bee reigns in his waxen cell, The chieftain in his stately hold, To-morrow's earthquake, — who can tell ? May both in ruin fold. BRIDAL SONG. Open wide the frontal gate, The Lady comes in bridal state ; Than wafted spices sweeter far, Brighter than the morning star; Modest as the lily wild, Gentle as a nurse's child. A lovelier prize of prouder boast, Never chieftain's threshold crost. Like the beams of early day, Her eyes' quick flashes brightly play; Brightly play and gladden all On whom their kindly glances fall. Her lips in smiling weave a charm To keep the peopled house from harm. In happy moment is she come To bless a noble chieftain's home. Happy be her dwelling here, Many a day and month and year! JOANNA BAILLIE. 179 Happy as the nested dove Jn her fruitful ark of love ! Happy in her tented screen ! Happy in her garden green ! Thus we welcome, one and all, Our lady to her chieftain's hall. SERENADE. The sun is down, and time gone by, The stars are twinkling in the sky, Nor torch nor taper longer may Eke out a blythe but stinted day ; The hours have pass'd with stealthy flight, We needs must part : good night, good night ! The bride unto her bower is sent, And ribald song and jesting spent; The lover's whisper'd words and few Have bade the bashful maid adieu ; The dancing-floor is silent quite, No foot bounds there : good night, good night ! The lady in her curtain'd bed, The herdsman in his wattled shed, The clansmen in the heather'd hall, Sweet sleep be with you, one and all ! We part in hopes of days as bright As this gone by : good night, good night ! Sweet sleep be with us, one and all! And if upon its stillness fall The visions of a busy brain, We '11 have our pleasure o'er again, To warm the heart, to charm the sight, Gay dreams to all ! good night, good night ! 180 MARIA JANE JEWSBURY. HYMN OF THE MARTYR. A long farewell to sin and sorrow, To beam of clay and evening shade! High in glory breaks our morrow, With light that cannot fade. While mortal flesh in flame is bleeding, For humble penitence and love, Our Brother and our Lord is pleading At mercy's throne above. We leave the hated and the hating, Existence sad in toil and strife ; The great, the good, the brave are waiting To hail our opening life. Earth's faded sounds our ears forsaking, A moment's silence death shall be ; Then, to heaven's jubilee awaking, Faith ends in victory. MARIA JANE JEWSBURY, A native of Warwickshire (about 1800), but the greater part of her life a resident of Manchester. She is best known from her prose works. Her early years, though her health was feeble, were strenuously devoted to study, and at nine years old she conceived the idea of distinguishing herself as an authoress. At the age of eighteen, the death of her mother brought upon her the care of a larg. 1 family, yet she persevered in her studies, and at twenty-two began to publish. Unfortunately, many of her best thoughts were wasted in hasty communications to magazines, annuals, &c. Her collected works are Phantasmagoria, or Sketches of Life and Literature (light essays and tales), Letters to the Young, (the fruit of religious meditation after a severe illness), and Three MARIA JANE JEWSBURY. 181 Histories (of an Enthusiast, a Nonchalant and a Realist), her best work. It is from her Lays of Leisure Hours and contributions to magazines, that she has claim to our notice in this work. As a writer of prose she has had much favour with the seriously disposed class, and deservedly, as she exhibits a lively imagination, a healthy moral tone, and an honest zeal to do good. As a writer of verse her merit is less, for, though her thoughts are good and her feeling strong, her versification is laboured, and destitute of that glow which true poetic fire always communicates to the lines it dictates; indeed, she seems, when she attempts verse, to lose the imagination which marks her prose; yet she cannot fail to win respect by her genuine and cheerful piety. We have headed our notice with her maiden name, as by that she will be most readily recog- nised, but she was married to the Rev. William Fletcher, whom she accompanied on a religious mission to India, where she died of cholera, a few months after landing, October 1833. She enjoyed the friendship of Mrs. Hemans and of Mr. Wordsworth, who speaks of her with beautiful simplicity : " Her enthusiasm was ardent, her piety stead- fast, and her great talents would have enabled her to be eminently use- ful in the path to which she had been called. The opinion she enter- tained of her own performances, given to the world under her maiden name, was modest and humble, indeed far below her merits, as is often the case witli those who arc making trial of their powers to discover what they are fit for. In one quality — quickness in the motions of her mind — she was, in the author's estimation, unrivalled." THERE IS NONE LIKE UNTO THEE. (JEREMIAH X . 6 . ) In the dark winter of affliction's hour, When summer friends and pleasures haste away, And the wrecked heart perceives how frail each power, It made a refuge, and believed a stay ; When man all wild and weak is seen to be — There 's none like thee, O Lord ! there's none like thee ! When the world's sorrow — ■ working only death, And the world's comfort — caustic to the wound, Make the wrung spirit loathe life's daily breath, 16 182 MARIA JANE JEWSBURY. As jarring music from a harp untuned; While yet it dare not from the discord flee, — ■ There 's none like thee, O Lord ! there 's none like thee ! When the tossed mind surveys its hidden world, And feels in every faculty a foe, United but in strife; waves urged and hurled By passion and by conscience, winds of woe, Till the whole being is a storm-swept sea — There 's none like thee, O Lord ! there 's none like thee ! Thou, in adversity, canst be a sun ; Thou hast a healing balm, a sheltering tower, The peace, the truth, the life, the love of One, Nor wound, nor grief, nor storm, can overpower Gifts of a king ; gifts, frequent and yet free, — There 's none like thee, O Lord ! none, none like thee ! THE WEEPER AT THE SEPULCHRE. A sound in yonder glade, But not of fount or breeze, A sound — but not of the whispering made By the palm and the olive trees ; It is not the minstrel's lute, Nor the swell of the night-bird's song, Nor the city's hum, when all else is mute, By echo borne along. 'Tis a voice — the Saviour's own — " Woman, why weepest thou ?" She turns — and her grief is for ever flown, And the shade that dimmed her brow ; He is there, her risen Lord, No more to know decline ; He is there, with peace in his every word, The wept one — still divine. MARIA JANE JEWSBURY. 183 "My father's throne to share, As King, as God I go, But a brother's heart will be with me there, For my brethren left below !" The Weeper is laid in dust, Her Lord is throned on high, But our's may be still that Weeper's trust, And our's that Lord's reply. Mourner — 'mid nature's bloom, Dimming its light with tears, — And captive — to whom the lone dark room Grows darker yet with fears, — And spirit — that like a bird Rests not on sea or shore, — ■ The voice in the olive-glade once heard, Hear ye — and weep no more! A DREAM OF THE FUTURE. A new age expands Its white and holy wings, above the peaceful lands. — Bryant. It was not in a curtained bed, When winter storms were howling dread, This pleasant dream I knew; — But in the golden month of June, Beneath the bright and placid moon, In slumber soft as dew Alone, in a green and woody dell, Where the lovely light of the moonbeams fell, With soft sheen on the grass; Still, except when a wandering breeze Stirring the boughs of the beechen trees, Made shadows come and pass. 184 MARIA JANE JEWSBURY. Silent — but for the midnight bird That makes the spot where'er 'tis heard With spell and sorcery fraught; Filling the mind with imaged things Of dreams, and melodies, and wings, The faery-land of thought. The flowers had folded up their lines, But their odours mixed with air and dews Made it a bliss to breathe ; How could I choose but dream that night, With a bower above of bloom aud light, A mossy couch beneath ? I dreamt — and of this world of woe, This very world of gloom and show, Where love and beauty cease ; This world wherein all fair is frail, And but wrong and sorrow never fail, Changed to a world of peace. And yet remained it as of old, Peopled by men of human mould, To human feelings wed ; Yet, was their traffic in the town, Yet, wore the king his glittering crown, And peasants earned their bread. And day and night were then as now, And the stars on heaven's mighty brow, Twinkled their sleepless eyes ; Like watchers sent by the absent sun, To look on all tilings said and done, 'Till he again arise. MARIA JANE JEWSBURY. 185 Spring with its promise went and came, And Summer with its breath of flame, Flushing the earth with flowers ; And Autumn like a sorcerer bold, Transmuting by his touch to gold, The fruitage of the bovvers. Earth still but knew an earthly lot ; Yet 't was a changed and charmed spot; Where'er the free foot trod ; For now no longer crime and sin, Like cratered fires its breast within, Flamed forth against its God. The curse that chained its strength was gone, And pleasantly in order shone The seasons into life, With only Winter plucked away, And heat and cold in tempered sway, Nature no more at strife. The pole had Eden-wealth of flowers, The tropic — noons of breezy hours, The seamen feared no storm ; The traveller far from haunts of men, Slept dreadless near the lion's den ; Nor did the serpent's form With its splendid coat of many dyes, Bid hate and fear alternate rise, For in the peace prepared, — The holy peace that upward ran, From man to God, from beast to man, Even the serpent shared. 16* 186 MARIA JANE JEWSBURY. No clarion stirred the quiet air, No banner with its meteor-glare The playful breezes saw ; Unknown the warrior's battle-blade, And judge in gloomy pomp arrayed, For love alone was law. There might be tears on childhood's cheek But few, and passionless, and meek, For strife of soul was dead ; And every smile with love was fraught, And glance of eye, spoke glance of thought, Far off deceit and dread. Shrined in the bosom of the seas Like gardens of Hesperides, Lay each beloved land, Inhabited by peaceful men, Each happy in his calling then, In city, vale, or strand. For poverty and greatness knew Their brotherhood — and service true Each from the other won ; The slave looked on his broken chain. And with a spirit freed from pain, Smiled upward on the sun. It was a holy, holy time ! The soul like nature readied its prime, And grew an angel-thing 5 A paradise of blissful thought — A fountain never-fearing drought, A palace — God its King. MARIA JANE JEWSBURY. 187 It was a holy time ; no sight But wore an aspect of delight. Peace was in every sound ; Peace in the song for the blissful wed, Peace in the chaunt for the tranquil dead, The buried and the crowned. And ever rose on the swelling breeze, From hamlets poor and palaces, Cities and lonely ways, Pealing through all earth's pulses strong, Like the roar of ocean turned to song, A hymn of lofty praise. And Death, with light and loving hand, Marshalled with smiles his radiant band Into a higher sphere, Even as a shepherd kind and old Calleth at night his flock to fold, With strains of music clear. Thus dreamt I through the live-long night, Till the freshened breeze of morning bright, Sleep from my eyelids shook ; And then with thoughts where joy held sway, And longings bright — my musing way Back to the world I took. MRS. HEMANS Is the most generally admired of all English female poets, and deservedly so. She was born at Liverpool in 1794. Her maiden name was Felicia Dorothea Browne, her father being a native of Ireland, and her mother of Germany, though of Venetian descent, to which com- bination of blood she was accustomed playfully to ascribe her imagina- tive tendencies. She was in childhood extremely lovely, a charm she did not lose in riper years ; and from an early age she manifested those lively sensibilities and poetical tastes which have been so fruitful of excellence. Happily for the cultivation of her genius, her father, when she was not five years old, removed with his family to a wild residence (Grywch) on the sea-shore, near Abergele, Denbighshire, in North Wales. Here she eagerly gathered the romantic legends of the people, and used to study her Shakspeare perched among the boughs of a favourite tree, that she might be free from interruption. The influence of these early scenes and habits may be seen upon her latest produc- tions. She was indefatigably studious, and thus acquired that classical taste which, in the editor's judgment, gave a charm to her writings not equalled by the German air which she rather affected after the revival of her fondness for the study of German authors. As early as 1808, a volume of poems, written, some of them, at eight years of age, and in 1812another, The Domestic Affections, were published; but unadvisedly, as they had no marks of talent, except that happy choice of subjects and remarkable felicity of numbers which characterized her through- out her career. In 1812, she was married to Captain Hemans of the British army ; but the union was not happy, and his health, shattered by the hardships of the retreat on Corunna, requiring his residence in Italy, they were separated shortly before the birth of her fifth son. Mrs. Hemans continued to reside with her widowed mother and affectionate sister at St. Asaphs, finding occupation for her heart and mind in the care of her boys, to whom she often tenderly alludes. Con- tinuing her well-directed studies, she made at this time many translations from the Latin classics, and from modern languages, contributing also a series of papers on Foreign Literature to the Edinburgh Magazine. (188) MRS. HEM ANS, 189 Her Restoration of Art to Italy, Modern Greece, The Sceptic, Tales and Historic Scenes, were published before 1820. In 1821, her poem, Dartmoor, received the prize of the Royal Society of Literature, as did her Wallace's Invocation to Bruce, from the Highland Society of London ; The Last Constantine and other Poems, with The Vespers of Palermo, followed in 1823 ; and the Lays of Many Lands, Records of Woman, The Forest Sanctuary, with other smaller pieces, before her removal from St. Asaphs, to Wavertree, near Liverpool, in the autumn of 1828. In 1830, after a visit to Scotland, where she made the acquaintance and gained the admiring friendship of Sir Walter Scott, she published her Songs of the Affections; and in the spring of 1831, she removed with her family to Dublin, whence her remaining works were issued, and there she died on the sixteenth of May, 1835. The Vespers of Palermo was written at the suggestion of Bishop Heber, who wished her to make an experiment in dramatic composition. Though not originally intended by her for the stage, it was, through the influence of the poet Milman, brought out at Covent Garden, the prin- cipal parts being sustained by Young, Charles Kemble, &c. ; but, as might have been expected from its want of tragic passion and unity, the representation was not successful, though subsequently, at Edin- burgh, it was more favourably received, Scott writing the epilogue and Mrs. Siddons giving her great powers to its support. It is, in fact, though a noble poem, far better adapted to the closet than the stage. Mrs. Hemans as a poetical writer is entitled to high admiration. The greatest drawback to her fame is her having written so much, more than fifty thousand lines having flowed from her pen, among which it would be difficult to find one faulty in measure or offensive to taste. She show- ered her treasures upon the public in such profusion, that readers became surfeited with sweetness, and began to think her pure melody monoto- nous, and her affectionate chasteness tame. Had she written less, those very qualities would have won for her unqualified applause. She seldom reached the sublime, but her thought was often profound, and her nice analysis of the best affections, her delicate perception of the minute circumstances that awaken and guide the sensibilities, the readiness with which she seized upon the noble, the picturesque, the graceful and the tender, designate her above every English writer but one as the "poet of the heart." Ilex forte lay in the lyric ; nor could she sustain herself through a long poem, her pieces of that description being marked by fine passages, rather than true epic interest. The Sceptic, hon- 190 MRS. HE MANS. ourably appreciated by the Quarterly Reviewer at the time of its pub- lication when her laurels were yet in the bud, lias an occasional Hue and loftiness not equalled by her afterwards, and the editor is grateful for the salutary influence it had upon his own mind. The Forest Sanc- tuary has more romantic beauty and spiritual perception. Several of her pieces on the classic model, though not sufficiently seven-, re- mind the student of the Greek anthology, more than any others from modern pens, some of Bryant's excepted. The Sleeper of Marathon and The Spartan March, might pass for translations of newly discov- ered ancient relics, not of any known poet, but of one that might have existed; they are better than imitations, conceptions in the antique. Miss Barrett has struck out at times a fragment of bolder out- line, but Mrs. Hemans has wrought her luxuriously draped images into a purer and lovelier perfection. Mrs. Hemans is caught by the splen- dours of warlike array, and wonders at heroic deeds, but she lias not breath for the trumpet, and melts at the sight of blood. It is as woman she feels most deeply, and when she writes of woman's history she writer under the best inspiration. Yet the homage of the world, of the scholar and the child, the young enthusiast and the grave theologian, have been freely yielded to her strains on sacred themes. Her brief lyric on The Agony in the Garden, has never been equalled by prose or poetry on that subject, and the experience of the reader must be different from mine, if it has not given him new thoughts, instructive and profit- able, concerning the awful, mysterious scene. The " cant of criti- cism" is to dwell upon her sameness ; but it should be remem- bered that it is the unbroken harmony, unpretending ease, and unfailing luxuriance which makes her ever so original, ever so like herself, and, with a thousand imitators, yet unreached by imitation. She lias written much that will not be often read ; but who, since the dawning of the century, has written more that is impressed upon our memory, or has given such heartfelt pleasure to all classes of readers, from the palace to the cottage in her native land, and from the rich dwellings on the seaboard to the farthest log-cottage of our own .' Miss Jevvsbury, in her Three Histories, thus describes Mrs. Hemans truthfully, thdtjgh with that enthusiasm which all who knew her appear to have shared in : "Egeria was totally different from any other woman I had ever seen, either in Italy or England. She did not dazzle — she subdued me. Other women might be more commanding, more versatile, more acute; but I never saw one so exquisitely feminine. She was lovely without MRS. HEMANS. 191 being beautiful; her movements were features ; and if a blind man had been privileged to pass his hand over the silken length of hair, that when unbraided flowed round her like a veil, he would have been jus- tified in expecting softness and a love of softness, beauty and a percep- tion of beauty, to be distinctive traits of her mind. Nor would he have been deceived. Her birth, her education, but, above all, the genius witli which she was gifted, combined to inspire a passion for the ethe- real, the tender, the imaginative, the heroic, — in one word, the beau- tiful. It was in her a faculty divine, and yet of daily life; — it touched all things, but, like a sunbeam, touched them with ' a golden finger.' Any thing abstract or scientific was unintelligible and distasteful to her ; her knowledge was extensive and various, but, true to the first principle of her nature, it was poetry that she sought in history, scenery, cha- racter, and religious belief, — poetry that guided all her studies, governed all her thoughts, coloured all her conversation. Her nature was at once simple and profound ; there was no room in her mind for philosophy, or in her heart for ambition, — one was filled by imagination, the other en- grossed by tenderness. Her strength and her weakness alike lay in her affections : these would sometimes make her weep at a word, — at others imbue her with courage ; — so that she was alternately a ' falcon- hearted dove,' and ' a reed shaken with the wind.' Her voice was a sad, sweet melody, her spirits reminded me of an old poet's description of the orange-tree, with its « Golden lamps hid in a night of green,' or of those Spanish gardens where the pomegranate grows beside the cypress. Her gladness was like a burst of sunlight ; and if in her de- pression she resembled night, it was night wearing her stars. I might describe, and describe for ever, but I should never succeed in portraying Egeria ; she was a muse, a grace, a variable child, a dependent woman — the Italy of human beings." THE EXILE OF THE MOREA. (FROM MODERN GREECE.) Lo ! to the scenes of fiction's wildest tales, Her own bright East, thy son, Morea! flies To seek repose 'midst rich, romantic vales, Whose incense mounts to Asia's vivid skies 192 MRS. HE MANS. There shall he rest? — Alas! his hopes in vain Guide to the sun-clad regions of the palm, Peace dwells not now on oriental plain, Though earth is fruitfulness, and air is balm ; And the sad wanderer finds but lawless foes, Where patriarchs reign'd of old, in pastoral repose. Where Syria's mountains rise, or Yemen's groves, Or Tigris rolls his genii-haunted wave, Life to his eye, as wearily it roves, Wears but two forms — the tyrant and the slave ! There the fierce Arab leads his daring horde, Where sweeps the sand-storm o'er the burning wild *, There stern Oppression waves the wasting sword O'er plains that smile, as ancient Eden smiled ; And the vale's bosom, and the desert gloom, Yield to the injured there no shelter save the tomb. But thou, fair world ! whose fresh unsullied charms Welcomed Columbus from the western wave, Wilt thou receive the wanderer to thine arms, The lost descendant of the immortal brave ? Amidst the wild magnificence of shades That o'er thy floods their twilight-grandeur cast, In the green depth of thine untrodden glades Shall he not rear his bower of peace at last ? Yes ! thou hast many a lone, majestic scene, Shrined in primeval woods, where despot ne'er hath been. There, by some lake, whose blue expansive breast Bright from afar, an inland-ocean, gleams, Girt with vast solitudes, profusely dressed In tints like those that float o'er poet's dreams ; Or where some flood from pine-clad mountain pours MRS. HEMANS. 193 Its might of waters, glittering in their foam, 'Midst the rich verdure of its wooded shores. The exiled Greek hath lixed his sylvan home : So deeply lone, that round the wild retreat Scarce have the paths been trod by Indian huntsman's feet. The forests are around him in their pride, The green savannas, and the mighty waves ; And isles of flowers, bright floating o'er the tide, That images the fairy worlds it laves, And stillness, and luxuriance — o'er his head The ancient cedars wave their peopled bowers, On high the palms their graceful foliage spread, Cinctured with roses the magnolia towers, And from those green arcades a thousand tones Wake with each breeze, whose voice through Nature's temple moans. And there, no traces left by brighter days, For glory lost may wake a sigh of grief, Some grassy mound, perchance, may meet his gaze, The lone memorial of an Indian chief. There man not yet hath marked the boundless plain With marble records of his fame and power; The forest is his everlasting fane, The palm his monument, the rock his tower. Th' eternal torrent and the giant tree, Remind him but that they, like him, are wildly free. But doth the exile's heart serenely there In sunshine dwell? — Ah! when was exile blest? When did bright scenes, clear heavens, or summer air Chase from his soul the fever of unrest ? — There is a heart-sick weariness of mood, That like slow poison wastes the vital glow, 17 N 194 MRS. HE MANS. And shrines itself in mental solitude, An uncomplaining and a nameless woe, That coldly smiles 'midst pleasures brightest ray, As the chill glacier's peak reflects the flush of day. THE HOPELESSNESS OF UNBELIEF. (FROM THE SCEPTIC.) But thou whose thoughts have no blest home above ' Captive of earth ! and canst thou dare to love ? To nurse such feelings as delight to rest, Within that hallowed shrine — a parent's breast, To fix each hope, concentrate every tie, On one frail Idol — destined but to die; Yet mock the faith that points to worlds of light, Where severed souls, made perfect, re-unite ? Then tremble ! cling to every passing joy, Twined with a life a moment may destroy ! If there be sorrow in a parting tear, Still let "for ever" vibrate on thine ear ! If some bright hour on rapture's wing hath flown, Find more than anguish in the thought — 'tis gone ! Go ! to a voice such magic influence give, Thou canst not lose its melody and live; And make an eye the lode-star of thy soul, And let a glance the springs of thought control ; Gaze on a mortal form with fond delight, Till the fair vision mingles with thy sight; There seek thy blessings, there repose thy trust, Lean on the willow, idolize the dust! Then, when thy treasure best repays thy care, Think on that dread "for ever'''' — and despair! MRS. HEMANS. 195 And oh ! no strange, unwonted storm there needs To wreck at once thy fragile ark of reeds. Watch well its course — explore with anxious eye Each little cloud that floats along the sky — Is the blue canopy serenely fair ? Yet may the thunderbolt unseen be there, And the bark sink, when peace and sunshine sleep On the smooth bosom of the waveless deep ! Yes ! ere a sound, a sign announce thy fate, May the blow fall which makes thee desolate ! Not always Heaven's destroying angel shrouds His awful form in tempest and in clouds ; He fills the summer air with latent power, He hides his venom in the scented flower, He steals upon thee in the Zephyr's breath, And festal garlands veil the shafts of death ! Where art thou then, who thus didst rashly cast Thine all upon the mercy of the blast, And vainly hope the tree of life to find Rooted in sands that flit before the wind ? Is not that earth thy spirit loved so well It wished not in a brighter sphere to dwell, Become a desert now, a vale of gloom, O'ershadowed with the midnight of the tomb ? Where shalt thou turn ? — it is not thine to raise To yon pure heaven thy calm confiding gaze, No gleam reflected from that realm of rest Steals on the darkness of thy troubled breast ; Not for thine eye shall Faith divinely shed Her glory round the image of the dead ; And if when slumber's lonely couch is prest, The form departed be thy spirit's guest, It bears no light from purer worlds to this; Thy future lends not e'en a dream of bliss. 196 MRS. HEMANS. THE WEAKNESS OF UNBELIEF. (from the same.) But hopest thou, in thy panoply of pride, Heaven's messenger, affliction, to deride ? In thine own strength unaided to defy, With Stoic smile, the arrows of the sky ? Torn by the vulture fettered to the rock, Still, demigod ! the tempest wilt thou mock ? Alas ! the tower that crests the mountain's brow A thousand years may awe the vale below, Yet not the less be shattered on its height, By one dread moment of the earthquake's might ! A thousand pangs thy bosom may have borne, In silent fortitude, or haughty scorn, Till comes the one, the master anguish, sent To break the mighty heart that ne'er was bent. Oh ! what is nature's strength ? the vacant eye, By mind deserted, hath a dread reply ! The wild delirious laughter of despair, The mirth of frenzy — seek an answer there! Turn not away, though pity's cheek grow pale, Close not thine ear against their awful tale. They tell thee, Reason wandering from the ray Of Faith the blazing pillar of her way, In the mid-darkness of the stormy wave, Forsook the struggling soul she could not save ! Weep not, sad moralist ! o'er desert plains, Strewed with the wrecks of grandeur — mouldering fanes, Arches of triumph, long with weeds o'ergrown, And regal cities now the serpent's own : Earth has more awful ruins — one lost mind, Whose star is quenched, hath lessons for mankind, Of deeper import than each prostrate dome, Mingling its marble with the dust of Roma MRS. HEMANS. 197 PRAYER FOR STRENGTH. (FROM the same.) O Thou ! th' unseen, th' all-seeing ! — Thou whose ways Mantled with darkness, mock all finite gaze, Before whose eyes the creatures of Thy hand, Seraph and man, alike in weakness stand, And countless ages, trampling into clay Earth's empires on their march, are but a day ; Father of worlds unknown, unnumbered! — Thou, With whom all time is one eternal now, Who know'st no past, nor future — Thou whose breath Goes forth, and bears to myriads, life or death ! Look on us, guide us ! — wanderers of a sea Wild and obscure, what are we, reft of Thee ? A thousand rocks, deep-hid, elude our sight, A star may set — and we are lost in night ; A breeze may waft us to the whirlpool's brink, A treacherous song allure us — and we sink ! Oh ! by His love, who, veiling Godhead's light, To moments circumscribed the Infinite, And Heaven and Earth disdained not to ally By that dread union — Man with Deity ; Immortal tears o'er mortal woes who shed, And, ere he raised them, wept above the dead ; Save, or we perish ! — let thy word control The earthquakes of that universe — the soul ; Pervade the depths of passion — speak once more The mighty mandate, guard of every shore, " Here shall thy waves be stayed" — in grief, in pain, The fearful poise of reason's sphere maintain, Thou, by whom suns are balanced ! — thus secure In Thee shall Faith and Fortitude endure ; Conscious of Thee, unfaltering shall the just Look upward still, in high and holy trust, 17* 198 MRS. HEMANS. And, by affliction guided to thy shrine, The first, last thought of suffering hearts be Thine. And oh ! be near, when clothed with conquering power, The King of Terrors claims his own dread hour ; When on the edge of that unknown abyss, Which darkly parts us from the realm of bliss, Awe-stiuck alike the timid and the brave, Alike subdued the monarch and the slave, Must drink the cup of trembling — when we see Nought in the universe but death and Thee, Forsake us not ; — if still, when life was young, Faith to Thy bosom, as her home, hath sprung, If Hope's retreat hath been, through all the past, The shadow by the Rock of Ages cast, Father, forsake us not ! — when tortures urge The shrinking soul to that mysterious verge, When from Thy justice to Thy love we fly, On Nature's conflict look with pitying eye, Bid the strong wind, the fire, the earthquake cease, Come in the still small voice, and whisper — peace ! For oh ! 't is awful — He that hath beheld The parting spirit, by its fears repelPd, Cling in weak terror to its earthly chain, And from the dizzy brink recoil, in vain ; He that hath seen the last convulsive throe Dissolve the union form'd and closed in woe, Well knows that hour is awful. — In the pride Of youth and health, by suffering yet untried, We talk of Death, as something, which 't were sweet, In Glory's arms exultingly to meet, A closing triumph, a majestic scene, Where gazing nations watch the hero's mien, As, undismay'd amidst the tears of all, He folds his mantle, regally to fall ! MRS. HEMANS. 199 Hush, fond enthusiast! — still, obscure, and lone, Yet not less terrible because unknown, Is the last hour of thousands — they retire From life's throng'd path, unnoticed to expire ; As the light leaf, whose fall to ruin bears Some trembling insect's little world of cares, Descends in silence — while around waves on The mighty forest, reckless what is gone ! Such is man's doom — and ere an hour be flown, — Start not, thou trifler ! — such may be thine own. DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. (FROM THE SAME.) But for the promise, all shall yet be well, Would not the spirit in its pangs rebel, Beneath such clouds as darken'd, when the hand Of wrath lay heavy on our prostrate land ; And thou, just lent thy gladden'd isles to bless, Then snatch'd from earth with all thy loveliness, With all a nation's blessings on thy head, O England's flower ! wert gather'd to the dead ? But thou didst teach us. Thou to every heart, Faith's lofty lesson didst thyself impart ! When fled the hope through all thy pangs which smiled, When thy young bosom, o'er thy lifeless child, Yearn'd with vain longing — still thy patient eye, To its last light, beam'd holy constancy ! Torn from a lot in cloudless sunshine cast, Amidst those agonies — thy first and last, Thy pale lip, quivering with convulsive throes, Breathed not a plaint — and settled in repose ; While bow'd thy royal head to Him, whose power Spoke in the fiat of that midnight hour, 200 MRS. HEMANS. Who from the brightest vision of a throne, Love, glory, empire, claim'd thee for his own, And spread such terror o'er the sea-girt coast, As blasted Israel, when her Ark was lost. " It is the will of God !" — yet, yet we hear The words which closed thy beautiful career; Yet should we mourn thee in thy blest abode, But for that thought — " It is the will of God !" Who shall arraign th' Eternal's dark decree, If not one murmur then escaped from thee ? Oh ! still, though vanishing without a trace, Thou hast not left one scion of thy race, Still may thy memory bloom our vales among, Hallow'd by freedom, and enshrined in song ! Still may thy pure, majestic spirit dwell, Bright on the isles which loved thy name so well, E'en as an angel, with presiding care, To wake and guard thine own high virtues there. a mother's love. FROM THE SIEGE OF V A L EN CIA., Elm. Love ! love ! — there are soft smiles and gentle words, And there are faces, skilful to put on The look we trust in — and 't is mockery all ! — A faithless mist, a desert-vapour, wearing The brightness of clear waters, thus to cheat The thirst that semblance kindled! — There is none, In all this cold and hollow world, no fount Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within A mother's heart. — It is but pride, wherewith To his fair son the father's eye doth turn, Watching his growth. Ay, on the boy he looks, The bright glad creature springing in his path, MRS. HEMANS. 201 But as the heir of his great name, the young And stately tree, whose rising strength erelong Shall bear his trophies well. — And this is love ! This is marCs love ! — What marvel ? — you ne'er made Your breast the pillow of his infancy, While to the fulness of your heart's glad heavings His fair cheek rose and fell ! and his bright hair Waved softly to your breath ! — You ne'er kept watch Beside him, till the last pale star had set, And morn, all dazzling, as in triumph, broke On your dim weary eye ; yet yours the face Which, early faded through fond care for him, Hung o'er his sleep, and, duly as heaven's light, Was there to greet his wak'ning ! You ne'er smooth'd His couch, ne'er sung him to his rosy rest, Caught his least whisper, when his voice from yours Had learn'd soft utterance ; press'd your lips to his, When lever parch'd it ; hush'd his wayward cries, With patient, vigilant, never-wearied love ! No ! these are woman's tasks ! — In these her youth, And bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart, Steal from her all unmark'd ! — My boys ! my boys ! Hath vain affection borne with all for this ? — Why were ye given me ? a mother's courage. (from the same.) Elm. Think'st thou there dwells no courage but in breasts That set their mail against the ringing spears, When helmets are struck clown ? Thou little know'st Of nature's marvels. Chief, my heart is nerved To make its way through things which warrior men, Ay, they that master death by held or flood, Would look on, ere they braved ! — I have no thought, 202 MRS. HEMANS. No sense of fear ! Thou 'rt mighty ! but a soul Wound up like mine is mightier, in the power Of that one feeling pour'd through all its depths, Than monarchs with their hosts ! Am I not come To die with these my children ? FORTITUDE MORE THAN BRAVERY. (FROM THE SAME.) Her. (with solemnity). If to plunge In the mid-waves of combat, as they bear Chargers and spearmen onwards ; and to make A reckless bosom's front the buoyant mark, On that wild current, for ten thousand arrows ; If thus to dare were valour's noblest aim, Lightly might fame be won ! But there are things Which ask a spirit of more exalted pitch, And courage temper'd with a holier fire ! Well may'st thou say that these are fearful times, Therefore be firm, be patient! — There is strength, And a fierce instinct, e'en in common souls, To bear up manhood with a stormy joy, When red swords meet in lightning ! — But our task Is more and nobler ! — We have to endure, And to keep watch, and to arouse a land, And to defend an altar! — If we fall, So that our blood make but the millionth part Of Spain's great ransom, we may count it joy To die upon her bosom, and beneath The banner of her faith ! — Think but on this, And gird your hearts with silent fortitude, Suffering, yet hoping all things — Fare ye well. MRS. HEMANS. 203 DEATH BETTER THAN SHAME. (FROM THE SAME.) Her. Let them die ! Let them die now, thy children ! so thy heart Shall wear their beautiful image all undimm'd Within it, to the last ! Nor shalt thou learn The bitter lesson, of what worthless dust Are framed the idols, whose false glory binds Earth's fetter on our souls ? — Thou think'st it much To mourn the early dead ; but there are tears Heavy with deeper anguish ! We endow Those whom we love, in our fond passionate blindness, With power upon our souls, too absolute To be a mortal's trust ! Within their hands We lay the naming sword, whose stroke alone Can reach our hearts, and they are merciful, As they are strong, that wield it not to pierce us ! — Ay, fear them, fear the loved ! — Had I but wept O'er my son's grave, or o'er a babe's, where tears Are as spring dew-drops, glittering in the sun, And brightening the young verdure, i" might still Have loved and trusted ! DEATH IN BEAUTY. (FROM THE SAME.) Elm. My child !— What dream Ts on thy soul ? — Even now thine aspect wears Life's brightest inspiration ! Xim. Death's ! Elm. Away ! Thine eye hath starry clearness ; and thy cheek Doth glow beneath it with a richer hue T^an tinored its earliest flower! 204 MRS. HE MANS. Xim. It well may be ! There are far deeper and far warmer hues Than those which draw their colouring from the founts Of youth, or health, or hope. Elm. Nay, speak not thus ! There 's that about thee shining which would send E'en through my heart a sunny glow of joy, Were 't not for these sad words. The dim cold air And solemn light, which wrap these tombs and shrines As a pale gleaming shroud, seem kindled up With a young spirit of ethereal hope Caught from thy mien ! — Oil no ! this is not death ! Xim. Why should not He, whose touch dissolves our chain, Put on his robes of beauty when he comes As a deliverer ? — He hath many forms, They should not all be fearful ! — If his call Be but our gathering to that distant land For whose sweet waters we have pined with thirst, Why should not its prophetic sense be borne Into the heart's deep stillness, with a breath Of summer-winds, a voice of melody, Solemn, yet lovely ? — Mother, I depart ! — Be it thy comfort, in the after-days, That thou hast seen me thus ! THE REFUGEE IN THE FOREST AND HIS BOY. (FROM THE FOREST SANCTUARY.) A blighted name ! — I hear the winds of morn — Their sounds are not of this ! — I hear the shiver Of the green reeds, and all the rustlings, borne From the high forest, when the light leaves quiver : Their sounds are not of this ! — the cedars, waving, Lend it no tone : His wide savannahs laving, It is not murmur'd by the joyous river! MRS. HEMANS. 205 What part hath mortal name, where God alone Speaks to the mighty waste, and through its heart is known ? Is it not much that I may worship Him, With nought my spirit's breathings to control, And feel His presence in the vast, and dim, And whispery woods, where dying thunders roll From the far cat'racts ? — Shall I not rejoice That I have learn'd at last to know His voice From man's ? — I v/ill rejoice! — my soaring soul Now hath redeem'd her birthright of the day, And won, through clouds, to Him, her own unfetter'd way ! And thou, my boy ! that silent at my knee Dost lift to mine thy soft, dark, earnest eyes Fill'd with the love of childhood, which I see Pure through its depths, a thing without disguise ; Thou that hast breathed in slumber on my breast, When I have check'd its throbs to give thee rest, Mine own ! whose young thoughts fresh before me rise ! Is it not much that I may guide thy prayer, And circle thy glad soul with free and healthful air ? THE PERSECUTED. (FROM THE SAME.) Thou Searcher of the soul ! in whose dread sight Not the bold guilt alone that mocks the skies, But the scarce-owned, unwhisper'd thought of night, As a tiling written with the sunbeam lies ; Thou know'st — whose eye through shade and depth can see, That this man's crime was but to worship thee, Like those that made their hearts thy sacrifice, The call'd of yore — wont by the Saviour's side On the dim Olive-Mount to pray at eventide. 18 '206 MRS. HEMANS. For the strong spirit will at times awake, Piercing the mists that wrap her clay abode ; And, born of thee, she may not always take Earth's accents for the oracles of God; And even for this — O dust, whose mask is power ! Reed, that would'st be a scourge thy little hour ! Spark, whereon yet the mighty hath not trod, And therefore thou destroyest ! — •where were flown Our hopes, if man were left to man's decree alone ? FREEDOM OF SPEECH. (FROM THE SAME.) It is a weary and a bitter task Back from the lip the burning word to keep, And to shut out heaven's air with falsehood's mask, And in the dark urn of the soul to heap Indignant feelings — making e'en of thought A buried treasure, which may but be sought When shadows are abroad — and night — and sleep. I might not brook it long — and thus was thrown Into that grave-like cell, to wither there alone. THE ROMAN CATHOLIC WIFE. (FROM THE SAME.) Alas ! and life hath moments when a glance — (If thought to sudden watchfulness be stirr'd) — A flush — a fading of the cheek, perchance — A word — less, less — the cadence of a word, Lets in our gaze the mind's dim veil beneath, Thence to bring haply knowledge fraught with death ! — Even thus, what never from thy lip was heard Broke on my soul. — I knew that in thy sight I stood — howe'er beloved — a recreant from the light. MRS. HEMANS. 207 Thy sad, sweet hymn, at eve, the seas along, — Oh ! the deep soul it breathed ! — the love, the woe, The fervour, pour'd in that full gush of song, As it went floating through the fiery glow Of the rich sunset ! — bringing thoughts of Spain, With all her vesper-voices, o'er the main, Which seem'd responsive in its murmuring flow. — " Jive sanctisslma /" — how oft that lay Hath melted from my heart the martyr-strength away Ave, sanctissima! 'T is nightfall on the sea ; Ora pro nobis ! Our souls rise to thee ! Watch us, while shadows lie O'er the dim waters spread ; Hear the heart's lonely sigh — Thine too hath bled ! Thou that hast look'd on death, Aid us when death is near ! Whisper of heaven to faith ; Sweet Mother, hear ! Ora pro nobis ! The wave must rock our sleep, Ora, Mater, ora ! Thou star of the deep ! " Ora pro nobis Mater .'" — What a spell Was in those notes, with day's last glory dying On the flush'd waters — seem'd they not to swell From the far dust, wherein my sires were lying With crucifix and sword ? — Oh ! yet how clear Comes their reproachful sweetness to mine ear ! 208 MRS. HEMANS. " Ora" — with all the purple waves replying, All my youth's visions rising in the strain — And 1 had thought it much to bear the rack and chain ! DEATH AND BURIAL AT SEA. (FROM the SAME. J Yes ! as if Heaven upon the waves were sleeping, Vexing my soul with quiet, there they lay, All moveless through their blue transparence keeping The shadows of our sails, from day to day ; While she — oh! strongest is the strong heart's woe — And yet I live! I feel the sunshine's glow — And I am he that looked, and saw decay Steal o'er the fair of earth, th' adored too much ! — It is a fearful thing to love what death may touch. A fearful thing that love and death may dwell In the same world ! — She faded on — and I — Blind to the last, there needed death to tell My trusting soul that she could fade to die ! Yet, ere she parted, I had marked a change, — But it breathed hope — 'twas beautiful, though strange: Something of gladness in the melody Of her low voice, and in her words a flight Of airy thought — alas! too perilously bright! And a clear sparkle in her glance, yet wild, And quick, and eager, like the flashing gaze Of some all wondering and awakening child, That first the glories of the earth surveys. — How could it thus deceive me? — she had worn Around her, like the dewy mists of morn, A pensive tenderness through happiest days, And a soft world of dreams had seemed to lie Still in her dark, and deep, and spiritual eye. MRS. HEMANS. 209 And I could hope in that strange fire ! — she died, She died, with all its lustre on her mien ! — The day was melting from the waters wide, And through its long hright hours her thoughts had been, It seemed, with restless and unwonted yearning, To Spain's blue skies and dark sierras turning ; For her fond words were all of vintage-scene, And flowering myrtle, and sweet citron's breath — Oh ! with what vivid hues life comes back oft on death ! And from her lips the mountain-songs of old, In wild faint snatches, fitfully had sprung; Songs of the orange bower, the Moorish hold, The " Rio verdef on her soul that hung, And thence flowed forth. — But now the sun was low, And watching by my side its last red glow, That ever stills the heart, once more she sung Her own soft " Ora, mater /" — and the sound Was even like love's farewell — so mournfully profound. The boy had dropped to slumber at our feet ; — " And I have lulled him to his smiling rest Once more !" she said : — I raised him — it was sweet, Yet sad, to see the perfect calm which blessed His look that hour; — for now her voice grew weak; And on the flowery crimson of his cheek, With her white lips a long, long kiss she pressed, Yet light, to wake him not. — Then sank her head Against my bursting heart — What did I clasp ? — the dead ! I called — to call what answers not our cries — By what we loved to stand unseen, unheard, With the loud passion of our tears and sighs, To see but some cold glittering ringlet stirred, And in the quenched eye's fixedness to gaze, All vainly searching for the parted rays ; 18* o 210 MRS. HE MANS. This is what waits us! — Dead! — with that chill word To link our bosom-names !- — For this we pour Our souls upon the dust — nor tremble to adore ! But the true parting came ! — I looked my last On the sad beauty of that slumbering face ; How could I think the lovely spirit passed, Which there had left so tenderly its trace ? Yet a dim awfulness was on the brow — ■ N"o ! not like sleep to look upon art Thou, Death, death ! — she lay, a thing for earth's embrace, To cover with spring-wreaths. — For earth's ? — the wave That gives the bier no flowers — makes moan above her grave ! On the mid-seas a knell ! — for man was there, Anguish and love — the mourner with his dead! A long low-rolling knell — a voice of prayer — Dark glassy waters, like a desert spread, And the pale-shining Southern Cross on high, Its faint stars fading from a solemn sky, Where mighty clouds before the dawn grew red; — ■ Were these things round me ? — Such o'er memory sweep Wildly when aught brings back that burial of the deep. Then the broad lonely sunrise! — and the plash Into the sounding waves ! around her head They parted, with a glancing moment's flash, Then shut — and all was still. And now thy bed Is of their secrets, gentlest Leonor ! Once fairest of young brides ! — and never more, Loved as thou wert, may human tear be shed Above thy rest ! — No mark the proud seas keep, To show where he that wept may pause again to weep. MRS. HEMANS. 211 So the depths took thee! — Oh! the sullen sense Of desolation in that hour compressed ! Dust going down, a speck amidst th' immense And gloomy waters, leaving on their breast The trace a weed might leave there ! — ■ Dust ! — the thing Which to the heart was as a living spring Of joy, with fearfulness of love possessed, Thus sinking ! — Love, joy, fear, all crushed to this — And the wide Heaven so far — so fathomless th' abyss ! Where the line sounds not, where the wrecks lie low, What shall wake thence the dead ? — Blest, blest are they That earth to earth entrust; for they may know And tend the dwelling whence the slumberer's clay Shall rise at last, and bid the young flowers bloom, That waft a breath of hope around the tomb, And kneel upon the dewy turf to pray ! But thou, what cave hath dimly chambered thee f Vain dreams ! — oh ! art thou not where there is no more sea ? The wind rose free and singing : — when for ever, O'er that sole spot of all the watery plain, I could have bent my sight with fond endeavour Down, where its treasure was, its glance to strain ; Then rose the reckless wind ! — Before our prow The white foam flashed — ay, joyously — and thou Wert left with all the solitary main Around thee — and thy beauty in my heart, And thy meek sorrowing love — oh ! where could that depart ? 212 MRS. HEMANS. TYRANNY WORKING OUT FREEDOM. (FROM THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.) Pro. I call upon thee now ! The land's high soul Is roused, and moving onward, like a breeze Or a swift sunbeam, kindling nature's hues To deeper life before it. In his chains, The peasant dreams of freedom! — Ay, 'tis thus Oppression fans th' imperishable flame With most unconscious hands. — No praise be hers For what she blindly works. — When slavery's cup O'erflows its bounds, the creeping poison, meant To dull our senses, through each burning vein Pours fever, lending a delirious strength To burst man's fetters — and they shall be burst! I have hoped, when hope seemed frenzy ; but a power Abides in human will, when bent with strong Unswerving energy on one great aim, To make and rule its fortunes ! — 1 have been A wanderer in the fulness of my years, A restless pilgrim of the earth and seas, Gathering the generous thoughts of other lands, To aid our holy cause. And aid is near: But we must give the signal. .Now, before The majesty of yon pure heaven, whose eye Is on our hearts — whose righteous arm befriends The arm that strikes for freedom — speak ! decree The fate of our oppressors. MRS. HEMANS. 213 THE JOY OF BATTLE. (FROM THE SAME.) — Ay, now the soul of battle is abroad, It burns upon the air! — The joyous winds Are tossing warrior-plumes, the proud white foam Of battle's roaring billows ! — On my sight The vision bursts — it maddens ! 't is the flash, The lightning-shock of lances, and the cloud Of rushing arrows, and the broad full blaze Of helmets in the sun ! — The very steed With his majestic rider glorying shares The hour's stern joy, and waves his floating mane As a triumphant banner ! — Such things are Even now — and I am here ! TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA. (TRANSLATION FROM HORACE.) Oh, worthy fragrant gifts of flowers and wine, Bandusian fount, than crystal far more bright ! To-morrow shall a sportive kid be thine, Whose forehead swells with horns of infant might Ev'n now of love and war he dreams in vain, Doomed with his blood thy gelid wave to stain. Let the red Dog-star burn! — his scorching beam, Fierce in resplendence shall molest not thee ! Still sheltered from his rage, thy banks, fair stream, To the wild flock around thee wandering free, And the tired oxen from the furrowed field ; The genial freshness of their breath shall yield. 214 MRS. HEMANS. And thou, bright Fount! ennobled and renowned, Shall by thy poet's votive song be made ; Thou and the oak with deathless verdure crowned, Whose boughs, a pendent canopy, o'ershade Those hollow rocks, whence, murmuring many a tale, Thy chiming waters pour upon the vale. THE SLEEPER OF MARATHON. I lay upon the solemn plain, And by the funeral mound, Where those who died not there in vain Their place of sleep had found. 'T was silent where the free blood gush'd When Persia came array 'd — So many a voice had there been hush'd, So many a foot-step stay'd. I slumber'd on the lonely spot So sanctified by death : I slumber'd — but my rest was not As theirs who lay beneath. For on my dreams, that shadowy hour, They rose — the chainless dead — All arm'd they sprang, in joy, in power, Up from their grassy bed. I saw their spears, on that red field, Flash as in time gone by — Chased to the seas without his shield, I saw the Persian fly. I woke — the sudden trumpet's blast Call'd to another fight — ■ From visions of our glorious past, Who doth not wake in might ? MRS. HEMANS. 215 THE SPARTANS' MARCH. "The Spartans used not the trumpet in their march into battle," says Thuoydides, " because they wished not to excite the rage of their war- riors. Their charging-step was made to the 'Dorian mood of flutes and soft recorders.' The valour of a Spartan was too highly tempered to require a stunning or a rousing impulse. His spirit was like a steed too proud for the spur.'' — Campbell on the Elegiac Poetry of the Greeks. 'Twas morn upon the Grecian hills, Where peasants dress'd the vines ; Sunlight was on Cithaeron's rills, Arcadia's rocks and pines. And brightly, through his reeds and flowers, Eurotas wander'd by, When a sound arose from Sparta's towers Of solemn harmony. Was it the hunters' choral strain To the woodland-goddess pour'd ? Did virgin hands in Pallas' fane Strike the full sounding chord ? But helms were glancing on the stream, Spears ranged in close array, And shields flung back a glorious beam To the morn of a fearful day ! And the mountain-echoes of the land Swell'd through the deep-blue sky ; While to soft strains moved forth a band Of men that moved to die. They march'd not with the trumpet's blast, Nor bade the horn peal out, And the laurel groves, as on they pass'd, Rung with no battle shout ! 216 MRS. HEMANS. They ask'd no clarion's voice to fire Their souls with an impulse high ; But the Dorian reed and the Spartan lyre For the sons of liberty ! And still sweet flutes, their path around Sent forth iEolian breath ; They needed not a sterner sound To marshal them for death ! So moved they calmly to their field, Thence never to return, Save bearing back the Spartan shield, Or on it proudly borne ! THE URN AND THE SWORD. They sought for treasures in the tomb, Where gentler hands were wont to spread Fresh boughs and flowers of purple bloom, And sunny ringlets, for the dead. They scatter'd far the greensward heap, Where once those hands the bright wine pour'd ; — What found they in the home of sleep ? — A mouldering urn, a shiver'd sword ! An urn, which held the dust of one Who died when hearts and shrines were free ; A sword, whose work was proudly done Between our mountains and the sea. And these are treasures ! — undismay'd, Still for the suffering land we trust, Wherein the past its fame hath laid, With freedom's sword, and valour's dust. MRS. HEMANS. 217 THE MESSENGER BIRD. [Some of the native Brazilians pay great veneration to a certain bird that sings mournfully in the night-time. They say it is a messenger which their deceased friends and relations have sent, and that it brings them news from the other world. — See Picart's Ceremonies and Reli- gious Customs'] Thou art come from the spirits 1 land, thou bird ! Thou art come from the spirit's land : Through the dark pine grove let thy voice be heard, And tell of the shadowy band ! We know that the bowers are green and fair In the light of that summer shore, And we know that the friends we have lost are there, They are there — and they weep no more ! And we know they have quenched their fever's thirst From the Fountain of youth ere now,* For there must the stream in its freshness burst Which none may find below ! And we know that they will not be lured to earth From the land of deathless flowers, By the feast, or the dance, or the song of mirth, Though their hearts were once with ours: Though they sat with us by the night-fire's blaze, And bent with us the bow, And heard the tales of our fathers' days, Which are told to others now ! * An expedition was actually undertaken by Juan Ponce de Leon, in the 16th century, with a view of discovering a wonderful fountain, believed by the natives of Puerto Rico to spring in one of the Lucayo Isles, and to possess the virtue of restoring youth to all who bathed in its waters — See Robertson's History of America. 19 218 MRS. HEMANS. But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain ! Can those who have loved forget ! We call — and they answer not again — Do the) r love — do they love us yet ? Doth the warrior think of his brother there, And the father of his child ? And the chief, of those that were wont to share His wandering through the wild ? We call them far through the silent night, And they speak not from cave or hill; We know, thou bird ! that their land is bright, But say, do they love there still ? A DIRGE. Calm on the bosom of thy God, Young spirit ! rest thee now, Even while with us thy footstep trod, His seal was on thy brow. Dust, to its narrow house beneath ! Soul to its place on high ! — They that have seen thy look in death, No more may fear to die. Lone are the paths, and sad the bowers, Whence thy meek smile is gone ; But oh ! — a brighter home than ours, In heaven is now thine own. MRS. HEMANS. 219 FAREWELL TO THE DEAD. [The following piece is founded on a beautiful part of the Greek funeral service, in which relatives and friends are invited to embrace the deceased (whose face is uncovered) and to bid their final adieu.— See Christian Researches in the Mediterranean.'] " 'T is hard to lay into the earth A countenance so benign ! a form that walk'd But yesterday so stately o'er the earth!" — Wilson. Come near! — ere yet the dust Soil the bright paleness of the settled brow, Look on your brother ; and embrace him now, In still and solemn trust ! Come near! — once more let kindred lips be press'd On his cold cheek; then bear him to his rest! Look yet on this young face ! What shall the beauty, from amongst us gone, Leave of its image, even where most it shone, Gladdening its hearth and race ? Dim grows the semblance on man's heart impress'd — Come near, and bear the beautiful to rest ! Ye weep, and it is well ! For tears befit earth's partings ! — Yesterday, Song was upon the lips of this pale clay, And sunshine seem'd to dwell Where'er he moved — the welcome and the bless'd Now gaze ! and bear the silent unto rest ! Look yet on him whose eye Meets yours no more, in sadness or in mirth ! Was he not fair amidst the sons of earth, The beings born to die? — But not where death has power may love be bless'd — Come near! and bear ye the beloved to rest! 220 MRS. HE MANS. How may the mother's heart Dwell on her son, and dare to hope again ? The Spring's rich promise hath been given in vain, The lovely must depart! Is he not gone, our brightest and our best ? Come near ! and bear the early call'd to rest ! Look on him ! is he laid To slumber from the harvest or the chase ? — ■ Too still and sad the smile upon his face; Yet that, even that must fade ! Death holds not long unchanged his fairest guest ! — Come near! and bear the mortal to his rest! His voice of mirth hath ceased Amidst the vineyards ! there is left no place For him whose dust receives your vain embrace At the gay bridal feast ! Earth must take earth to moulder on her breast ; Come near ! weep o'er him ! bear him to his rest ! Yet mourn ye not as they Whose spirit's light is quench'd ! — for him the past Is seal'd. He may not fall, he may not cast His birth-right's hope away ! All is not here of our beloved and bless'd — Leave ye the sleeper with his God to rest! THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP. What hidest thou in thy treasure-caves and cells ? Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main ! — Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-coloured shells, Bright things which gleam unrecked of and in vain ! ■ Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea! We ask not such from thee. MRS. HEMANS. 221 Yet more, the depths have more ! — what wealth untold, Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies ! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, Won from ten thousand royal Argosies ! — Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main ! Earth claims not these again. Yet more, the depths have more! — thy waves have rolled Above the cities of a world gone by ! Sand hath filled up the palaces of old, Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry. — Dash o'er them, ocean ! in thy scornful play ! Man yields them to decay. Yet more ! the billows and the depths have more .' High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast ! They hear but now the booming waters roar, The battle-thunders will not break their rest. — Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave ! Give back the true and brave ! Give back the lost and lovely ! — those for whom The place was kept at board and hearth so long ! The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom, And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song ! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown — • But all is not thine own. To thee the love of woman hath gone down, Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown ; Yet must thou hear a voice — Restore the dead ! Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee ! — Restore the dead, thou sea! 19 * 222 MRS. HEMANS. BRING FLOWERS. Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board, To wreath the cup ere the wine is poured : Bring flowers ! they are springing in wood and vale : Their breath floats out on the southern gale ; And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose, To deck the hall where the bright wine flows. Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path — He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath ! He comes with the spoils of nations back, The vines lie crushed in his chariot's track, The turf looks red where he won the day — Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's Avay ! Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell, They have tales of the joyous woods to tell; Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky, And the bright world shut from his languid eye ; They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours, And the dream of his youth — bring him flowers, wild flowers ! Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear ! They were born to blush in her shining hair. She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth, She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth, Her place is now by another's side — Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride ! Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed, A crown for the brow of the early dead ! For this through its leaves hath the white rose burst, For this in the woods was the violet nursed ! Though they smile in vain for what once was ours, They are love's last gift — bring ye flowers, pale flowers ! MRS. HEM AN S. 22.3 Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer, They are nature's offering, their place is there '. They speak of hope to the fainting heart, With a voice of promise they come and part, They sleep in dust through the wintry hours, They break forth in glory — bring flowers, bright flowers ! THE REVELLERS. Ring, joyous chord! — ring out again! A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! They are here — the fair face and the careless heart, And stars shall wane ere the mirthful part. — But I met a dimly mournful glance, In a sudden turn of the flying dance ; I heard the tone of a heavy sigh, In a pause of the thrilling melody ! And it is not well that woe should breathe — Ye that to thought or to grief belong, Leave, leave the hall of song ! Ring, joyous chords! — but who art thou With the shadowy locks o'er thy pale young brow, And the world of dreamy gloom that lies In the misty depths of thy soft dark eyes ? —Thou hast loved, fair girl ! thou hast loved too well ! Thou art mourning now o'er a broken spell ; Thou hast poured thy heart's rich treasures forth, And art unrepaid for their priceless worth ! Mourn on ! — yet come thou not here the while, It is but a pain to see thee smile ! There is not a tone in our song for thee — — Home with thy sorrows flee ! Ring, joyous chords! — ring out again! — But what dost thou with the revel's train ? 224 MRS. HEMANS. A silvery voice through the soft air floats, But thou hast no part in the gladdening notes ; There are bright young faces that pass thee by, But they fix no glance of thy wandering eye ! Away ! there 's a void in thy yearning breast, Thou weary man ! wilt thou here find rest ? Away ! for thy thoughts from the scene have fled, And the love of thy spirit is with the dead ! Thou art but more lone 'midst the sounds of mirth — — Back to thy silent hearth! Ring, joyous chords! — ring forth again A swifter still, and a wilder strain! — But thou, though a reckless mien be thine, And thy cup be crowned with the foaming wine, By the fitful bursts of thy laughter loud, By thine eye's quick flash through its troubled cloud, 1 know thee! — it is but the wakeful fear Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here ! I know thee! — thou fearest the solemn night, With her piercing stars and her deep wind's might ! There 's a tone in her voice which thou fain would'st shun, For it asks what the secret soul hath done ! And thou — there's a dark weight on thine — away! — Back to thy home, and pray ! Ring, joyous chords! — ring out again! A swifter still, and a wilder strain! And bring fresh wreaths! — >we will banish all Save the free in heart from our festive hall. On ! through the maze of the fleet dance, on ! — But where are the young and the lovely ? — gone ! Where are the brows with the Red Cross crowned, And the floating forms with the bright zone bound ? MRS. HEMANS. 225 And the waving locks and the flying feet, That still should be where the mirthful meet? — They are gone — they are (led — they are parted all — Alas ! the forsaken hall ! THE CONQUEROR'S SLEEP. Sleep 'midst thy banners furled! Yes! thou art there, upon thy buckler lying, With the soft wind unfelt around thee sighing, Thou chief of hosts, whose trumpet shakes the world! Sleep while the babe sleeps on its mother's breast — Oh ! strong is night — for thou too art at rest ! Stillness hath smoothed thy brow, And now might love keep timid vigils by thee, Now might the foe with stealthy foot draw nigh thee, Alike unconscious and defenceless thou ! Tread lightly, watchers! — now the field is won, Break not the rest of Nature's weary son ! Perchance some lovely dream Back from the stormy fight thy soul is bearing, To the green places of thy boyish daring, And all the windings of thy native stream- — Why, this were joy! — upon the tented plain, Dream on, thou Conqueror ! — be a child again ; But thou wilt wake at morn, With thy strong passions to the conflict leaping, And thy dark troubled thoughts all earth o'ersweeping ; So wilt thou rise, oh ! thou of woman born ! And put thy terrors on, till none may dare Look upon thee- -the tired one, slumbering there! P 226 MRS. HEMANS. Why, so the peasant sleeps Beneath his vine ! — and man must kneel before thee, And for his birthright vainly still implore thee ! Shalt thou be stayed because thy brother weeps ? — Wake ! and forget that 'midst a dreaming world, Thou hast lain thus with all thy banners furled ! Forget that thou, even thou, Hast feebly shivered when the wind passed o'er thee, And sunk to rest upon the earth which bore thee, And felt the night-dew chill thy fevered brow ! Wake with the trumpet, with the spear press on ! Yet shall the dust take home its mortal son. THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS. " Sing aloud Old songs, the precious music of the heart." — Wordsworth. Sing them upon the sunny hills, When days are long and bright, And the blue gleam of shining rills Is loveliest to the sight! Sing them along the misty moor, Where ancient hunters roved, And swell them through the torrent's roar, The songs our fathers loved ! The songs their souls rejoiced to hear When harps were in the hall, And each proud note made lance and spear Thrill on the bannered Avail : The songs that through our valleys green, Sent on from age to age, Like his own river's voice, have been The peasant's heritage. MRS. HEMAN S. ; 121 The reaper sings them when the vale Is filled with plumy sheaves ; The woodman, by the starlight pale, Cheered homeward through the leaves : And unto them the glancing oars A joyous measure keep, Where the dark rocks that crest our shores Dash back the foaming deep. So let it be! — a light they shed O'er each old fount and grove; A memory of the gentle dead, A lingering spell of love. Murmuring the names of mighty men, They bid our streams roll on, And link high thoughts to every glen Where valiant deeds were done. Teach them your children round the hearth, When evening fires burn clear, And in the fields of harvest mirth, And on the hills of deer : So shall each unforgotten word, When far those loved ones roam, Call back the hearts which once it stirred, To childhood's holy home. The green woods of their native land Shall whisper in the strain, The voices of their household band Shall breathe their names again ; The heathery heights in vision rise Where, like the stag, they roved — Sing to your sons those melodies, The songs your fathers loved ! 228 MRS. HEMANS. KINDRED HEARTS. Oh ! ask not, hope thou not too much Of sympathy below ; Few are the hearts whence one same touch Bids the sweet fountains flow : Few — and by still conflicting powers Forbidden here to meet — Such ties would make this life of ours Too fair for aught so fleet. It may be that thy brother's eye Sees not as thine, which turns In such deep reverence to the sky, Where the rich sunset burns : It may be that the breath of spring, Born amidst violets lone, A rapture o'er thy soul can bring — A dream, to his unknown. The tune that speaks of other times — A sorrowful delight ! The melody of distant chimes, The sound of waves by night, The wind that, with so many a tone, Some chord within can thrill, — These may have language all thine own, To him a mystery still. Yet scorn thou not, for this, the true And steadfast love of years ; The kindly that from childhood grew, The faithful to thy tears ! If there be one that o'er the dead Hath in thy grief borne part, And watched through sickness by thy bed,- Call his a kindred heart! MRS. HEMANS. 229 But for those bonds all perfect made, Wherein bright spirits blend, Like sister flowers of one sweet shade, With the same breeze that bend, For that full bliss of thought allied, Never to mortals given, — Oh ! lay thy lovely dreams aside, Or lift them unto Heaven. CASABIANC A.* The boy stood on the burning deck Whence all but he had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wrecu, Shone round him o'er the dead. Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As bora to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood, A proud, though child-like form. The flames rolled on — he would not go Without his Father's word; That Father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard. He called aloud : — " Say, Father, say If yet my task is done ?" He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son. " Speak, Father !" once again he cried, " If I may yet be gone !" And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on. * Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the Admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the battle of the Nile) after the ship had taken fire and all the guns had been abandoned; and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder. 20 230 MRS. HEMANS. Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair, And looked from that lone post of death, In still, yet brave despair. And shouted but once more aloud, "My Father! must I stay?" While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way. They wrapt the ship in splendour wild, They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child, Like banners in the sky. There came a burst of thunder sound — The boy — oh ! where was he ? Ask of the winds that far around With fragments strewed the sea! — With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part — But the noblest thing which perished tnere Was that young faithful heart! MRS. HEMANS. THE HEBREW MOTHER. 231 The rose was rich in bloom on Sharon's plain, When a young mother with her first-born thence Went up to Zion, for the boy was vowed Unto the Temple-service; — by the hand She led him, and her silent soul, the while, Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think That aught so pure, so beautiful, was hers, To bring before her God. So passed they on, O'er Judah's hills ; and wheresoe'er the leaves Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon, Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive-boughs, With their cool dimness, crossed the sultry blue Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might rest ; Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep That weighed their dark fringe down, to sit and watch The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose, As at a red flower's heart. — And where a fount Lay like a twilight-star 'midst palmy shades, Making its banks green gems along the wild, There too she lingered, from the diamond wave Drawing bright water for his rosy lips, And softly parting clusters of jet curls To bathe his brow. At last the Fane was reached, The Earth's One Sanctuary — and rapture hushed Her bosom, as before her, through the day, It rose, a mountain of white marble, steeped In light, like floating gold. But when that hour Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear Turned from the white-robed priest, and round her arm Clung as the ivy clings — the deep spring-tide Of Nature then swelled high, and o'er her child 232 MRS. HEMANS. Bending, her soul broke forth, in mingled sounds Of weeping and sad song. — " Alas," she cried, " Alas ! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me, The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes, And now fond thoughts arise, And silver cords again to earth have won me ; And like a vine thou claspest my full heart — How shall I hence depart ? " How the lone paths retrace where thou wert playing So late, along the mountains, at my side ? And I, in joyous pride, By every place of flowers my course delaying Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair, Beholding thee so fair! " And oh ! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted, Will it not seem as if the sunny day Turned from its door away ? While through its chambers wandering, weary-hearted, I languish for thy voice, which past me still Went like a singing rill ? " Under the palm-trees thou no more shalt meet me, When from the fount at evening I return, With the full water-urn ; Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings greet me, As 'midst the silence of the stars 1 wake, And watch for thy clear sake. " And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee, Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed ? Wilt thou not vainly spread Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear, A cry which none shall hear ? MRS. HEMANS. 233 " What have I said, my child ? — Will He not hear thee, Who the young ravens heareth from their nest ? Shall He not guard thy rest, And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee, Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy ? Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy! " I give thee to thy God — the God that gave thee, A wellspring of deep gladness to my heart ! And precious as thou art, And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee, My own, my beautiful, my undefiled ! And thou shalt be His child. " Therefore, farewell ! — I go, my soul may fail me. As the hart panteth for the water-brooks, Yearning for thy sweet looks — But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me ; Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell. The Rock of Strength. — Farewell !" THE WRECK. All night the booming minute-gun Had pealed along the deep, And mournfully the rising sun Looked o'er the tide-worn steep. A bark from India's coral strand, Before the raging blast, Had vailed her topsails to the sand, And bowed her noble mast. The queenly ship ! — brave hearts had striven, And true ones died with her — We saw her mighty cable riven, Like floating gossamer. 20* 234 MRS. HEMANS. We saw her proud flag struck that morn, A star once o'er the seas — Her anchor gone, her deck uptorn, And sadder things than these. We saw her treasures cast away — The rocks with pearls were sown, And strangely sad, the ruby's ray Flashed out o'er fretted stone. And gold was strewn the wet sands o'er, Like ashes by a breeze — And gorgeous robes — but oh! that shore Had sadder things than these' We saw the strong man still and low, A crushed reed thrown aside — Yet by that rigid lip and brow, Not without strife he died. And near him on the sea-weed lay — Till then we had not wept, But well our gushing hearts might say, That there a mother slept! For her pale arms a babe had prest, With such a wreathing grasp, Billows had dashed o'er that fond breast, Yet not undone the clasp. Her very tresses had been flung To wrap the fair child's form, Where still their wet long streamers clung, All tangled by the storm. And beautiful 'midst that wild scene, Gleamed up the boy's dead face, Like Slumber's, trustingly serene, In melancholy grace. MRS. HEMANS. 235 Deep in her bosom lay his head, With half-shut violet eye — He had known little of her dread, Nought of her agony ! Oh ! human Love, whose yearning heart, Through all things vainly true, So stamps upon thy mortal part Its passionate adieu — Surely thou hast another lot, There is some home for thee, Where thou shalt rest, remembering not The moaning of the sea! THE TRUMPET. The trumpet's voice hath roused the land, Light up the beacon pyre! — A hundred hills have seen the brand And waved the sign of fire. A hundred banners to the breeze Their gorgeous folds have cast — And hark ! — ■ was that the sound of seas ? — A king to war went past. The chief is arming in his hall, The peasant by his hearth; The mourner hears the thrilling call, And rises from the earth. The mother on her first-born son Looks with a boding eye — They come not back, though all be won, Whose young hearts leap so high. The bard hath ceased his song, and bound The falchion to his side; 236 MRS. HEMANS. E'en for the marriage altar crowned, The lover quits his bride. And all this haste, and change, and fear, By earthly clarion spread ! — How will it be when kingdoms hear The blast that wakes the dead? EVENING PRAYER, AT A GIRLS' SCHOOL. " Now in thy youth, beseech of Him, Who giveth, upbraiding not; That his light in thy heart become not dim, And his love be unforgot; And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be, Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee." Bernard Barton. Hush! 'tis a holy hour — the quiet room Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom And the sweet stillness, down on fair young heads, With all their clustering locks, untouch'd by care, And bow'd, as flowers are bow'd with night, in prayer. Gaze on — 't is lovely ! — Childhood's lip and cheek, Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought — Gaze — yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek, And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought? — Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky, What death must fashion for eternity ! O ! joyous creature ! that will sink to rest ! Lightly, when those pure orisons are done, As birds with slumber's honey-dew opprest, 'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun — Lift up your hearts ! though yet no sorrow lies Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes. MRS. HEMANS. 237 Though fresh within your breasts th' untroubled springs Of hope make melody where'er ye tread, And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread ; Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low, Is woman's tenderness — how soon her woe ! Her lot is on you — silent tears to weep And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, And sumless riches, from affection's deep, To pour on broken reeds — a wasted shower! And to make idols, and to find them clay, And to bewail that worship — ■ therefore pray ! Her lot is on you — to be found untired, Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired, And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain ; Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, And, oh ! to love through all things — therefore pray ! And take the thought of this calm vesper time, With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light, On through the dark days fading from their prime, As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight ! Earth will forsake — O ! happy to have given Th' unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven. THE HOUR OF DEATH. " II est dans la Nature d'aimer a se livrer a l'idee meme qu'on redoute." Corinne. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set — but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 238 MRS. HEMANS. Day is for mortal care, Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer - But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. The banquet hath its hour, Jts feverish hour, of mirth, and song, and wine ; There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears — but all are thine. Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, And smile at thee — but thou art not of those That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set — but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! We know when moons shall wane, When Summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain- But who shall teach us when to look for thee ! Is it when Spring's first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie ? Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ? — They have one season — all are ours to die ! Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air ; Thou art around us in our peaceful home. And the world calls us forth — and thou art there. Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest — Alfieri. MRS. HEMANS. 239 Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set — but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! THE HOUR OF PRAYER. " Pregar, pregar, pregar, Ch' altro ponno i mortali al pianger nati ?" Child, amidst the flowers at play, While the red light fades away; Mother with thine earnest eye, Ever following silently ; Father, by the breeze of eve Call'd thy harvest work to leave, Pray : ere yet the dark hours be, Lift the heart and bend the knee ! Traveller, in the stranger's land, Far from thine own household band; Mourner, haunted by the tone Of a voice from this world gone ; Captive, in whose narrow cell Sunshine hath not leave to dwell ; Sailor on the darkening sea — Lift the heart and bend the knee ! Warrior, that from battle won Breathest now at set of sun ; Woman, o'er the lowly slain Weeping on his burial-plain; 240 MRS. HEMANS. Ye that triumph, ye that sigh, Kindred by one holy tie, Heaven's first-star alike ye see — Lift the heart and bend the knee ! THE DREAMER. "Thou hast been called, Sleep! the friend of woe, But 'tis the happy who have called thee so." — Southet. Peace to thy dreams! — thou art slumbering now, The moonlight's calm is upon thy brow ; All the deep love that o'erfiows thy breast Lies 'midst the hush of thy heart at rest, Like the scent of a flower in its folded bell, When eve through the woodlands hath sighed farewell. Peace! — the sad memories that through the day With a weight on thy lonely bosom lay, The sudden thoughts of the changed and dead, That bowed thee as winds bow the willow's head, The yearnings for faces and voices gone — All are forgotten ! — Sleep on, sleep on ! Are they forgotten ? — It is not so ! Slumber divides not the heart from its woe. E'en now o'er thine aspect swift changes pass, Like lights and shades over wavy grass : Tremblest thou, Dreamer? — O love and grief! Ye have storms that shake e'en the closed-up leaf! On thy parted lips there's a quivering thrill, As on a lyre ere its chords are still; On the long silk lashes that fringe thine eye, There 's a large tear gathering heavily ; A rain from the clouds of thy spirit pressed — ■ Sorrowful Dreamer! this is not rest! MRS. HE MANS. 241 It is Thought at work amidst buried hours, It is Love keeping vigil o'er perished flowers. — Oh ! we bear within us mysterious things ; Of Memory and Anguish, unfathomed springs ; And Passion — those gulfs of the heart to fill With bitter waves, which it ne'er may still. Well might we pause ere we gave them sway, Flinging the peace of our couch away ! Well might we look on our souls in fear, They find no fount of oblivion here ! They forget not, the mantle of sleep beneath — How know we if under the wings of death ? THE WINGS OF A DOVE. "Oh! that I had wings like a dove, for then would I fly away, and he at rest." — Psalm lv. Oh ! for thy wings, thou dove ! Now sailing by with sunshine on thy breast ; That, borne like thee above, I too might flee away, and be at rest ! Where wilt thou fold those plumes, Bird of the forest-shadows, holiest bird ? In what rich leafy glooms, By the sweet voice of hidden waters stirred ? Over what blessed home, What roof with dark, deep Summer foliage crowned, O ! fair as ocean's foam ! Shall thy bright bosom shed a gleam around ? Or seek'st thou some old shrine Of nymph or saint, no more by votary wooed, Though still, as if divine, Breathing a spirit o'er the solitude ? 21 Q 242 MRS. HEMANS. Yet wherefore ask thy way ? Blest, ever blest, whate'er its aim, thou art! Unto the greenwood spray, Bearing no dark remembrance at thy heart! No echoes that will blend A sadness with the whispers of the grove; No memory of a friend Far off, or dead, or changed to thee, thou dove! Oh ! to some cool recess Take, take me with thee on the summer wind, Leaving the weariness And all the fever of this life behind : The aching and the void Within the heart, whereunto none reply, The young bright hopes destroyed — Bird ! bear me with thee through the sunny sky . Wild wish, and longing vain, And brief upspringing to be glad and free ! Go to thy woodland reign : My soul is bound and held — I may not flee. For even by all the fears And thoughts that haunt my dreams — untold, unknown And burning woman's tears, Poured from mine eyes in silence and alone ; Had I thy wings, thou dove ! High 'midst the gorgeous isles of cloud to soar, Soon the strong chords of love Would draw me earthwards — homewards — yet once more. r™ MRS. HE MANS. 243 I GO, SWEET FRIENDS.' I go, sweet friends ! yet think of me When Spring's young voice awakes the flowers ; For we have wandered far and free In those bright hours, the violet's hours. I go; but when you pause to hear, From distant hills, the Sabbath-bell On summer-winds float silvery clear, Think on me then — I loved it well ! Forget me not around your hearth, When cheerly smiles the ruddy blaze, For dear hath been its evening mirth To me, sweet friends, in other days. And oh ! when music's voice is heard To melt in strains of parting woe, When hearts to love and grief are stirred, Think of me then ! — I go, I go ! TO A CHILD ON HIS BIRTHDAY. Thou wakest from rosy sleep to play With bounding heart, my boy! Before thee lies a long bright day Of summer and of joy. Thou hast no heavy thought or dream To cloud thy fearless eye; Long be it thus — life's early stream Should still reflect the sky. Yet, ere the cares of life lie dim On thy young spirit's wings, Now in thy morn forget not Him From whom each pure thought springs ! 244 MRS. HE MANS. So, in the onward vale of tears, Where'er thy path may be, When strength hath bowed to evil years, He will remember thee ! SOUND OF THE SEA. Thou art sounding on, thou mighty sea, For ever and the same ! The ancient rocks yet ring to thee, Those thunders nought can tame. Oh! many a glorious voice is gone, From the rich bowers of earth, And hushed is many a lovely one Of mournfulness or mirth. The Dorian flute that sighed of yore Along the wave, is still; The harp of Judah peals no more On Zion's awful hill. And Memnon's lyre hath lost the chord That breathed the mystic tone, And the songs, at Rome's high triumphs poured, Are with her eagles flown. And mute the Moorish horn, that rang O'er stream and mountain free, And the hymn the leagued Crusaders sang, Hath died in Galilee. But thou art swelling on, thou deep, Through many an olden clime, Thy billowy anthem, ne'er to sleep Until the close of time. MRS. HEMANS. 245 Thou liftest up thy solemn voice To every wind and sky, And all our earth's green shores rejoice In that one harmony. It fills the noontide's calm profound, The sunset's heaven of gold ; And the still midnight hears the sound, E'en as when first it rolled. Let there be silence, deep and strange, Where spectred cities rose ! Thou speak'st of one who doth not change — — So may our hearts repose. DEATH OF THE HUNTER'S DAUGHTER. " Thou 'rt passing from the lake's green side, And the hunter's hearth away; From the time of flowers, for the summer's pride, Daughter! thou canst not stay. "Thou'rt journeying to thy spirit's home, Where the skies are ever clear; The corn month's golden hours will come, But they shall not find thee here. " And we shall miss thy voice, my bird ! Under our whispering pine; Music shall 'midst the leaves be heard, But not a song like thine. "A breeze that roves o'er stream and hill, Telling of winter gone, Hath such sweet falls — yet caught we still A farewell in its tone. 21* 246 MRS. HEMANS. " But thou, my bright one ! thou shalt be Where farewell sounds are o'er; Thou, in the eyes thou lovest, shalt see No fear of parting more. " The mossy grave thy tears have wet, And the wind's wild moanings by, Thou with thy kindred shalt forget, 'Midst flowers — not such as die. "The shadow from thy brow shall melt, The sorrow from thy strain, But where thine earthly smile hath dwelt Our hearts shall thirst in vain. " Dim will our cabin be, and lone, When thou, its light, art fled : Yet hath thy step the pathway shown Unto the happy dead. " And we will follow thee, our guide ! And join that shining band; Thou 'rt passing from the lake's green side — Go to the better land !" The song had ceased — the listeners caught no breath, That lovely sleep had melted into death. THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. " Where 's the coward that would not dare To fight for such a land ?" — Marmion. The stately Homes of England, How beautiful they stand ! Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O'er all the pleasant land. MRS. HEMANS. 247 The deer across their greensward bound, Through shade and sunny gleam, And the swan glides past them with the sound Of some rejoicing stream. The merry Homes of England! Around their hearths by night, What gladsome looks of household love Meet in the ruddy light! There woman's voice flows forth in song. Or childhood's tale is told, Or lips move tunefully along Some glorious page of old. The blessed Homes of England ! How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from Sabbath hours ! Solemn, yet sweet the church-bell's chime Floats through their woods at morn, All other sounds, in that still time, Of breeze and leaf are born. The Cottage Homes of England ! By thousands on her plains, They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, And round the hamlet fanes. Through glowing orchards forth they peep, Each from its nook of leaves, And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves. The free, fair Homes of England ! Long, long, in hut and hall, May hearts of native proof be reared To guard each hallowed wall ! 248 MRS. HEMANS. And green for ever be the groves, And bright the flowery sod, Where first the child's glad spirit loves Its country and its God! LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. "Look now abroad — another race has filled Those populous borders — wide the wood recedes, And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are tilled; The land is lull of harvests and green meads.'' — Bryant. The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed ; And the heavy night hung dark, The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore. Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came ; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame ; Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear ; — They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard and the sea : And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free ! MRS. HEMANS. 249 The ocean eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam; And the rocking pines of the forest roared — This was their welcome home ! There were men with hoary hair Amidst that pilgrim band : — Why had they come to wither there, Away from their childhood's land ? There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth ; There was manhood's brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth. What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine ? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? — They sought a faith's pure shrine! Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trode, They have left unstained, what there they found — Freedom to worship God. THE PALM TREE. It waved not through an eastern sky, Beside a fount of Araby ; It was not fanned by southern breeze In some green isle of Indian seas ; Nor did its graceful shadow sleep O'er stream of Afric, lone and deep. * This incident is, I think, recorded by De Lille, in his poem of Les Jardins. 250 MRS. HEMANS. But fair the exiled palm-tree grew 'Midst foliage of no kindred hue; Through the laburnum's dropping gold Rose the light shaft of orient mould, And Europe's violets, faintly sweet, Purpled the moss-beds at its feet. Strange looked it there! — the willow streamed Where silvery waters near it gleamed ; The lime bough lured the honey-bee To murmur by the desert's tree, And showers of snowy roses made A lustre in its fan-like shade. There came an eve of festal hours — Rich music filled that garden's bowers : Lamps, that from flowering branches hung, On sparks of dew soft colour flung, And bright forms glanced — a fairy show — Under the blossoms to and fro. But one, a lone one, 'midst the throng, Seemed reckless of all dance or song : He was a youth of dusky mien, Whereon the Indian sun had been, Of crested brow and long black hair — A stranger, like the palm-tree, there. And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes, Glittering athwart the leafy glooms : He passed the pale green olives by, Nor won the chestnut flowers his eye ; But when to that sole palm he came, Then shot a rapture through his frame! MRS. HEMANS. 251 To him, to him its rustling spoke, The silence of his soul it broke ! It whispered of his own bright isle, That lit the ocean with a smile ; Ay, to his ear that native tone Had something of the sea wave's moan ! His mother's cabin home, that lay- Where feathery cocoas fringed the bay; The dashing of his brethren's oar — The conch-note heard along the shore ; All through his wakening bosom swept — He clasped his country's tree and wept! Oh, scorn him not! — the strength whereby The patriot girds himself to die, Th' unconquerable power which fills The freeman battling on his hills — These have one fountain deep and clear — The same whence gushed that childlike tear THE SPELLS OF HOME. There blend the ties that strengthen Our hearts in hours of grief, The silver links that lengthen Joy's visits when most brief. Bernard Bahtow. By the soft green light in the woody glade, On the banks of moss where thy childhood played ; By the household tree through which thine eye First looked in love to the summer-sky ; By the dewy gleam, by the very breath Of the primrose tufts in the grass beneath, Upon thy heart there is laid a spell, Holy and precious — oh ! guard it well ! 252 MRS. HEMANS. By the sleepy ripple of the stream, Which hath lulled thee into many a dream ; By the shiver of the ivy-leaves To the wind of morn at thy casement-eaves, By the bee's deep murmur in the limes, By the music of the Sabbath-chimes, By every sound of thy native shade, Stronger and dearer the spell is made. By the gathering round the winter hearth, When twilight called unto household mirth ; By the fairy tale or the legend old In that ring of happy faces told ; By the quiet hour when hearts unite In the parting prayer and the kind " Good-night ;" By the smiling eye and the loving tone, Over thy life has a spell been thrown. And bless that gift ! — it hath gentle might, A guardian power and a guiding light. It hath led the freeman forth to stand In the mountain battles of his land; It hath brought the wanderer o'er the seas, To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze ; And back to the gates of his father's hall, It hath led the weeping prodigal. Yes ! when thy heart in its pride would stray From the pure first loves of its youth away ; When the sullying breath of the world would come O'er the flowers it brought from its childhood's home ; Think thou again of the woody glade, And the sound by the rustling ivy made, Think of the tree at thy father's door, And the kindly spell shall have power once more ! MRS. HEMANS. 253 THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. They grew in beauty, side by side, They filled one house with glee — Their graves are severed far and wide, By mount, and stream, and sea. The same fond mother bent at night O'er each fair sleeping brow ; She had each folded flower in sight — Where are those dreamers now ? One, 'midst the forests of the West, By a dark stream is laid — The Indian knows his place of rest, Far in the cedar shade. The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, He lies where pearls lie deep — ■ He was the loved of all, yet none O'er his low bed may weep. One sleeps where southern vines are drest. Above the noble slain : He wrapt his colours round his breast, On a blood-red field of Spain. And one — o'er her the myrtle showers Its leaves, by soft winds fanned; She faded, 'midst Italian flowers, The last of that bright band. And parted thus they rest, who played Beneath the same green tree ; Whose voices mingled as they prayed Around one parent knee! 22 254 MRS. HEMANS. They that with smiles lit up the hall, And cheered with song the hearth — Alas ! for love, if thou wert all, And nought beyond, Oh earth ! THE VAUDOIS' WIFE.* Clasp me a little longer, on the brink Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress: And when this heart hath ceased to beat, oh! think — And let it mitigate thy woe's excess — That thou hast been to me all tenderness, And friend, to more than human friendship just. Oh ! by that retrospect of happiness, And by the hopes of an immortal trust, God shall assuage thy pangs, when I am laid in dust. Gertrude of Wyoming. Thy voice is in mine ear, beloved ! Thy look is in my heart, Thy bosom is my resting-place, And yet I must depart. Earth on my soul is strong — too strong — Too precious is its chain, All woven of thy love, dear friend, Yet vain — though mighty — vain ! Thou see'st mine eye grow dim, beloved ! Thou seest my life-blood flow. — Bow to the chastener silently, And calmly let me go! A little while between our hearts The shadowy gulf must lie, Yet have we for their communing Still, still Eternity! * The wife of a Vaudois leader, in one of the attacks made on the Protestant hamlets, received a mortal wound, and died in her husband's arms, exhorting him to courage and endurance. MRS. HEMANS. 255 Alas ! thy tears are on my cheek, My spirit they detain ; I know that from thine agony Is wrung that burning rain. Best, kindest, weep not ; — make the pang, The bitter conflict, less — Oh ! sad it is, and yet a joy, To feel thy love's excess ! But calm thee ! Let the thought of death A solemn peace restore ! The voice that must be silent soon, Would speak to thee once more, That thou mayest bear its blessing on Through years of after life — A token of consoling love, Even from this hour of strife. I bless thee for the noble heart, The tender, and the true, Where mine hath found the happiest rest That e'er fond woman's knew ; I bless thee, faithful friend and guide, For my own, my treasured share, In the mournful secrets of thy soul, In thy sorrow, in thy prayer. I bless thee for kind looks and words Showered on my path like dew, For all the love in those deep eyes, A gladness ever new ! For the voice which ne'er to mine replied But in kindly tones of cheer j For every spring of happiness My soul hath tasted here! 256 MRS. HEMANS. I bless thee for the last rich boon Won from affection tried, The right to gaze on death with thee, To perish by thy side ! And yet more for the glorious hope Even to these moments given — Did not thy spirit ever lift The trust of mine to Heaven ? Now be thou strong ! Oh ! knew we not Our path must lead to this ? A shadow and a trembling still Were mingled with our bliss ! We plighted our young hearts when storms Were dark upon the sky, In full, deep knowledge of their task To suffer and to die ! Be strong ! I leave the living voice Of this, my martyred blood, With the thousand echoes of the hills, With the torrent's foaming flood, — A spirit 'midst the caves to dwell, A token on the air, To rouse the valiant from repose, The fainting from despair. Hear it, and bear thou on, my love! Ay, joyously endure! Our mountains must be altars yet, Inviolate and pure 5 There must our God be worshipped still With the worship of the free — ■ Farewell! — there's but oiip pang in death, One only, — leaving thee ! MRS. HEMANS. THE STRANGER'S HEART. The stranger's heart ! Oh ! wound it not ! A yearning anguish is its lot ; In the green shadow of thy tree, The stranger finds no rest with thee. Thou think'st the vine's low rustling leaves Glad music round thy household eaves ; To him that sound hath sorrow's tone — The stranger's heart is with his own. Thou think'st thy children's laughing play A lovely sight at fall of day ; — Then are the stranger's thoughts oppressed — His mother's voice comes o'er his breast. Thou think'st it sweet when friend with friend Beneath one roof in prayer may blend ; Then doth the stranger's eye grow dim — Far, far are those who prayed with him. Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land — The voices of thy kindred band — Oh ! 'midst them all when blest thou art, Deal gently with the stranger's heart ! 22 257 258 MRS. HEMANS. THE SLEEPER. "For sleep is awful." — Byron. Oh ! lightly, lightly tread ! A holy thing is sleep, On the worn spirit shed, And eyes that wake to weep. A holy thing from Heaven, A gracious dewy cloud, A covering mantle given The weary to enshroud. Oh! lightly, lightly tread! Revere the pale still brow, The meekly-drooping head, The long hair's willowy flow. Ye know not what ye do, That call the slumberer back, From the world unseen by you Unto life's dim faded track. Her soul is far away, In her childhood's land, perchance, Where her young sisters play, Where shines her mother's glance. Some old sweet native sound Her spirit haply weaves ; A harmony profound Of woods with all their leaves; A murmur of the sea, A laughing tone of streams : — Long may her sojourn be In the music land of dreams ! MRS. HE MANS. 259 Each voice of love is there, Each gleam of beauty fled, Each lost one still more fair — Oh! lightly, lightly tread! THE ANGLER. "I in these flowery meads would be; These crystal streams should solace me : To whose harmonious bubbling noise I with my angle would rejoice : And angle on, and beg to have A quiet passage to a welcome grave." Isaac Waltoit. Thou that hast loved so long and well The vale's deep quiet streams, Where the pure water-lilies dwell, Shedding forth tender gleams; And o'er the pool the May-fly's wing Glances in golden eves of spring. Oh ! lone and lovely haunts are thine, Soft, soft the river flows, Wearing the shadow of thy line, The gloom of alder-boughs ; And in the midst, a richer hue, One gliding vein of heaven's own blue. And there but low sweet sounds are heard — The whisper of the reed, The plashing trout, the rustling bird, The scythe upon the mead : Yet, through the murmuring osiers near, There steals a step which mortals fear. 260 MRS. HEMANS. 'Tis not the stag, that comes to lave, At noon, his panting breast; 'Tis not the bittern by the wave Seeking her sedgy nest; The air is filled with summer's breath, The young flowers laugh — yet look ! 't is death ! But if, where silvery currents rove, Thy heart, grown still and sage, Hath learned to read the words of love That shine o'er nature's page; If holy thoughts thy guests have been, Under the shade of willows green ; Then, lover of the silent hour, By deep lone waters past, Thence hast thou drawn a faith, a power, To cheer thee through the last ; And, wont on brighter worlds to dwell, May'st calmly bid thy streams farewell. EVENING SONG OF THE TYROLESE. Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone; The woodman's axe lies free, And the reaper's work is done. The twilight star to heaven, And the summer dew to flowers, And rest to us, is given By the cool soft evening hours. Sweet is the hour of rest! Pleasant the wind's low sigh, And the gleaming of the west, And the turf whereon we lie ; MRS. HEMANS. 261 When the burden and the heat Of labour's task are o'er, And kindly voices greet The tired one at his door. Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone; The woodman's axe lies free, And the reaper's work is done. Yes; tuneful is the sound That dwells in whispering boughs ; Welcome the freshness round! And the gale that fans our brows. But rest more sweet and still Than ever nightfall gave, Our yearning hearts shall fill In the world beyond the grave. There shall no tempest blow, No scorching noontide heat; There shall be no more snow, No weary wandering feet. So we lift our trusting eyes From the hills our fathers trode, To the quiet of the skies, To the sabbath of our God. Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone, The woodman's axe lies free, And the reaper's work is done. 262 MRS. HEMANS. WOMAN AND FAME. Thou hast a charmed cup, O Fame ! A draught that mantles high, And seems to lift this earthly frame Above mortality. Away! to me — a woman — bring Sweet waters from affection's spring. Thou hast green laurel leaves, that twine Into so proud a wreath ; For that resplendent gift of thine, Heroes have smiled in death : Give me from some kind hand a flower, The record of one happy hour! Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone Can bid each life-pulse beat As when a trumpet's note hath blown, Calling the brave to meet : But mine, let mine — a woman's breast, By words of home-born love be blessed. A hollow sound is in thy song, A mockery in thine eye, To the sick heart that doth but long For aid, for sympathy — For kindly looks to cheer it on, For tender accents that are gone. Fame, Fame ! thou canst not be the stay Unto the drooping reed, The cool fresh fountain in the day Of the soul's feverish need : — Where must the lone one turn or flee? — Not unto thee — oh! not to thee! MRS. HEMANS. LET HER DEPART. Her home is far, oh! far away! The clear light in her eyes Hath naught to do with earthly day, 'Tis kindled from the skies. Let her depart ! She looks upon the things of earth, Even as some gentle star Seems gazing down on grief or mirth, How softly, yet how far! Let her depart! Her spirit's hope — her bosom's love — Oh! could they mount and fly! She never sees a wandering dove, But for its wings to sigh. Let her depart ! She never hears a soft wind bear Low music on its way, But deems it sent from heavenly air, For her who cannot stay. Let her depart ! Wrapt in a cloud of glorious dreams, She breathes and moves alone, Pining for those bright bowers and streams Where her beloved is gone. Let her depart ! I WOULD WE HAD NOT MET AGAIN I would we had not met again! — I had a dream of thee, Lovely, though sad, on desert plain, Mournful on midnight sea. 263 264 MRS. HEMANS. What though it haunted me by night, And troubled through the day ? It touched all earth with spirit-light, It glorified my way ! Oh! what shall now my faith restore In holy things and fair ? We met — I saw thy soul once more — — The world's breath had been there' Yes ! it was sad on desert-plain, Mournful on midnight sea, Yet would I buy with life again That one deep dream of thee ! COME TO ME, GENTLE SLEEP. Come to me, gentle sleep ! I pine, I pine for thee ; Come with thy spells, the soft, the deep, And set my spirit free ! Each lonely, burning thought, In twilight languor steep — Come to the full heart, long o'erwrought, O gentle, gentle sleep ! Come with thine urn of dew, Sleep, gentle sleep ! yet bring No voice, love's yearning to renew, No vision on thy wing! Come, as to folding flowers, To birds in forests deep ; — Long, dark, and dreamless be thine hours, O gentle, gentle sleep ! MRS. HEMANS. 265 CHRIST STILLING THE TEMPEST. Fear was within the tossing bark When stormy winds grew loud, And waves came rolling high and dark, And the tall mast was bowed. And men stood breathless in their dread, And baffled in their skill ; But One was there, who rose and said To the wild sea — be still! And the wind ceased — it ceased ! — that word Passed through the gloomy sky; The troubled billows knew their Lord, And fell beneath His eye. And slumber settled on the deep, And silence on the blast; They sank, as flowers that fold to sleep When sultry day is past. O Thou, that in its wildest hour Didst rule the tempest's mood, Send thy meek spirit forth in power, Soft on our souls to brood! Thou that didst bow the billows' pride Thy mandate to fulfil ! Oh, speak to passion's raging tide, Speak, and say, " Peace, be still .'" 23 266 MRS. HEMANS. HYMN OF THE VAUDOIS. "Thanks be to God for the mountains!" HowiWs Book of the Seasons. For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God ! Thou hast made thy children mighty, By the touch of the mountain sod. Thou hast fixed our ark of refuge, Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod ; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God ! We are watchers of a beacon Whose light must never die ; We are guardians of an altar 'Midst the silence of the sky : The rocks yield founts of courage, Struck forth as by thy rod ; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God ! For the dark resounding caverns, Where thy still small voice is heard ; For the strong pines of the forests, That by thy breath are stirred ; For the storms on whose free pinions Thy spirit walks abroad ; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God ! The royal eagle darteth On his quarry from the heights, And the stag that knows no master Seeks there his wild delights ; MRS. HEMANS. 267 But we, for thy communion, Have sought the mountain sod ; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God ! The banner of the chieftain, Far, far below us waves ; The war-horse of the spearman Cannot reach our lofty caves : Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold Of freedom's last abode ; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God! For the shadow of thy presence, Round our camp of rock outspread ; For the stern defiles of battle, Bearing record of our dead ; For the snows and for the torrents, For the free heart's burial sod ; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God ! THE AGONY IN THE GARDEN. He knelt, the Saviour knelt and prayed, When but his Father's eye Looked through the lonely garden's shade On that dread agony; The Lord of All above, beneath, Was bowed with sorrow unto death. The sun set in a fearful hour, The stars might well grow dim, 268 MRS. HEMANS. When this mortality had power So to o'ershadow Him ! That He who gave man's breath, might know The very depths of human woe. He proved them all ! — the doubt, the strife, The faint perplexing dread, The mists that hang o'er parting life, All gathered round his head ; And the Deliverer knelt to pray — Yet passed it not, that cup, away ! It passed not — though the stormy wave Had sunk beneath his tread ; It passed not — though to him the grave Had yielded up its dead. But there was sent him from on high A gift of strength for man to die. And was the sinless thus beset With anguish and dismay? How may we meet our conflict yet, In the dark narrow way ? Through Him — through Him, that path who trod- Save, or we perish, Son of God ! SONNETS. And ye are strong to shelter ! — all meek things, All that need home and covert, love your shade ! Birds, of shy song, and low-voiced quiet springs, And nun-like violets, by the Avind betrayed. Childhood beneath your fresh green tents hath played MRS. HE MANS. 269 With his first primrose-wealth : there love hath sought A veiling gloom for his unuttered thought; And silent grief, of day's keen glare afraid, A refuge for her tears ; and ofttimes there Hath lone devotion found a place of prayer, A native temple, solemn, hushed, and dim ; For wheresoe'er your murmuring tremors thrill The woody twilight, there man's heart hath still Confessed a spirit's breath, and heard a ceaseless hymn. FOLIAGE. Come forth, and let us through our hearts receive The joy of verdure! — see, the honied lime Showers cool green light o'er banks where wildflowers weave Thick tapestry ; and woodbine tendrils climb Up the brown oak from buds of moss and thyme. The rich deep masses of the sycamore Hang heavy with the fulness of their prime, And the white poplar, from its foliage hoar, Scatters forth gleams like moonlight, with each gale That sweeps the boughs : — the chestnut flowers are past, The crowning glories of the hawthorn fail, But arches of sweet eglantine are cast From every hedge : — Oh ! never may we lose, Dear friend ! our fresh delight in simplest nature's hues ! FLOWERS IN A SICK-ROOM. Welcome, O pure and lovely forms, again Unto the shadowy stillness of my room ! For not alone ye bring a joyous train Of summer-thoughts attendant on your bloom — 23* 270 MRS. HEMANS. Visions of freshness, of rich bowery gloom, Of the low murmurs filling mossy dells, Of stars that look down on your folded bells Through dewy leaves, of many a wild perfume Greeting the wanderer of the hill and grove Like sudden music ; more than this ye bring — Far more; ye whisper of the all-fostering love, Which thus hath clothed you, and whose dove-like wing Broods o'er the sufferer, drawing fevered breath, Whether the couch be that of life or death. SABBATH. WRITTEN NEAR DEATH. How many blessed groups this hour are bending Through England's primrose meadow paths their way Toward spire and tower, 'midst shadowy elms ascending, When the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day. The halls, from old heroic ages grey, Pour their fair children forth ; and hamlets low, With those thick orchard blooms the soft winds play, Send out their inmates in a happy flow, Like a free vernal stream. I may not tread With them those pathways, — to the feverish bed Of sickness bound ; — yet, oh my God ! I bless Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath filled My chastened heart, and all its throbbings stilled To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness. MRS. HEMANS. 271 A POET'S DYING HYMN. Be mute who will, who can, Yet I will praise thee with impassioned voice ! Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine In such a temple as we now behold, Rear'd for thy presence ; therefore I am bound To worship, here and everywhere. Wordsworth. The blue, deep, glorious heavens ! — I lift mine eye, And bless thee, O my God ! that I have met And owned thine image in the majesty Of their calm temple still ! — that never yet There hath thy face been shrouded from my sight By noontide blaze, or sweeping storm of night : I bless thee, O my God! That now still clearer, from their pure expanse, I see the mercy of thine aspect shine, Touching death's features with a lovely glance Of light, serenely, solemnly divine, And lending to each holy star a ray As of kind eyes, that woo my soul away : I bless thee, O my God! That I have heard thy voice, nor been afraid, In the earth's garden — 'midst the mountains old, And the low thrillings of the forest shade, And the wild sounds of waters uncontrolled, And upon many a desert plain and shore — No solitude — for there I felt thee more : I bless thee, O my God! And if thy spirit on thy child hath shed The gift, the vision of the unsealed eye, To pierce the mist o'er life's deep meanings spread, To reach the hidden fountain-urns that lie 272 MRS. HEMANS, Far in man's heart — if I have kept it free And pure — a consecration unto thee : I bless thee, O my God! If my soul's utterance hath by thee been fraught With an awakening power — if thou hast made Like the winged seed, the breathings of my thought, And by the swift winds bid them be conveyed To lands of other lays, and there become Native as early melodies of home : I bless thee, O my God ! Not for the brightness of a mortal wreath, Not for a place 'midst kingly minstrels dead, But that, perchance, a faint gale of thy breath, A still small whisper in my song, hath led One struggling spirit upwards to thy throne, Or but one hope, one prayer — for this alone I bless thee, O my God ! That I have loved — ■ that 1 have known the love Which troubles in the soul the tearful springs, Yet, with a colouring halo from above, Tinges and glorifies all earthly things Whate'er its anguish or its woe may be, Still weaving links for intercourse with thee : I bless thee, O my God ! That by the passion of its deep distress, And by the o'erflowing of its mighty prayer, And by the yearning of its tenderness, Too full for words upon their stream to bear, I have been drawn still closer to thy shrine, Well-spring of love, the unfathomed, the divine : I bless thee, O my God ! MRS. HEMANS. 273 That hope hath ne'er my heart or song forsaken, High hope, which even from mystery, doubt, or dread, Calmly, rejoicingly, the things hath taken, Whereby its torchlight for the race was fed ; That passing storms have only fanned the fire, Which pierced them still with its triumphal spire, 1 bless thee, O my God ! Now art thou calling me in every gale, Each sound and token of the dying day : Thou leavest me not, though early life grows pale, I am not darkly sinking to decay ; But, hour by hour, my soul's dissolving shroud Melts off to radiance, as a silvery cloud. I bless thee, O my God ! And if this earth, with all its choral streams, And crowning woods, and soft or solemn skies, And mountain sanctuaries for poet's dreams, Be lovely still in my departing eyes — 'T is not that fondly I would linger here, But that thy foot-prints on its dust appear : — > I bless thee, O my God ! And that the tender shadowing I behold, The tracery veining every leaf and flower, Of glories cast in more consummate mould, No longer vassals to the changeful hour; That life's last roses to my thoughts can bring Rich visions of imperishable spring : I bless thee, O my God ! Yes ! the young vernal voices in the skies Woo me not back, but, wandering past mine eai, Seem heralds of th' eternal melodies, The spirit-music, unperturbed and clear; 274 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. The full of soul, yet passionate no more — Let me too, joining those pure strains, adore ! I bless thee, O my God ! Now aid, sustain me still! — to thee 1 come, Make thou my dwelling where thy children are ! And for the hope of that immortal home, And for thy Son, the bright and morning star, The sufferer and the victor-king of death, J bless thee with my glad song's dying breath! I bless thee, O my God ! LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON, (MRS. MACLEAN.) This accomplished poetess, whose signature, L. E. L., never failed to attract the public eye, when appended to the verses she threw off in rapid profusion, was the daughter of an army agent, and born at Hans Place, Chelsea, 1802. When very young, she began to manifest indi- cations of talent, and, through the friendship of Mr. Jerdan of the Lon- don Literary Gazette, her productions frequently and for a long period appeared in that magazine. Her mother being left a widow with a dependent family in very narrow circumstances, Letitia devoted herself to constant and successful literary exertion for their support. Her in- dustry was very great, and, notwithstanding her genius and wonderful facility of rhythm, we regret that she was obliged to write so fast, as more careful study would have placed her in the very front rank of fe- male talents : as it was, she continued greatly to improve, and few names stand so high in the list of poetesses as hers. In June 1838, she was married to Captain Maclean, then appointed Governor of Cape Coast Castle, Africa, whither she almost immediately accompanied him, but died on the 15th of October, not many weeks after her arrival at the settlement. The circumstances of her death were very painful. She was found lying dead near the door, on the floor of her own room, with a vial of prussic acid in her hand, having taken an excessive dose of the LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON, 275 poison, which had been prescribed to her, and she was accustomed to use, for the relief of hysterical spasms. Suspicions of suicide, and even of fatal designs against her life by others, were rife at the time ; but the cheerful tone of her letters written the night before her decease, and the bright colouring she gave in them to her expected future, ought to remove such dreadful accusations, and convince us that the verdict by the coroner's jury of accidental death, in the manner above stated, was just. The strain of nearly all her poems is warm and passionate: love, de- voted, self-sacrificing, absorbing and unsatisfied, being her favourite theme. This, with a certain recklessness of mere rigid rules, which the necessities of society have prescribed, but ill suited to her impul- siveness of character increased by her habits of self-reliance, gave rise to many insinuations against her, as afflictive as they were undeserved. The friendship of her literary adviser, Mr. Jerdan, was misrepresented by scandal, in which envy of her attractive genius had no small part; but her natural disposition, notwithstanding her trying circumstances, was gay and kindly, ever loth to give pain, and delighting to accord praise, though towards the end of her career her indignant scorn of false friends shows itself through her verses. In 1824, she published The Improvisatrice and other Poems, which was followed, in rapid succes- sion, by The Troubadour, The Venetian Bracelet, The Golden Violet, The Vow of the Peacock, with very numerous smaller pieces. Besides her poetry she wrote several romances, The Fate of Adelaide (her earliest separate publication, in her eighteenth year), Romance and Reality, Francesca Carara, and Ethel Churchill, all deservedly suc- cessful, besides reviews, essays, &c. The flow of poetical language and rhyme was so natural to her, that her biographer, Mr. Blanchard, says she wrote verse more rapidly than prose. This is seen especially in her Improvisatrice, which flows on like improvisation, as it un- doubtedly was, her pen being to her as a voice. Some of her smaller pieces, as Crescenlius, show her to have been capable of higher classic power, if she had had the patience to cultivate a greater severity of criticism on her own productions. The editor has far greater pleasure in speaking of her writings, as they struck his youthful fancy, than with the cool judgment of more mature years ; but he believes that there are few who will not join him in a willing tribute to the minstrel power of one, who, whatever her defects may have been, had the true fire and gush of poetic inspiration. 276 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. PETRARCH AND LAURA. (FROM the impko vis atrice. ) Divine st Petrarch ! he whose lyre, Like morning' light, half dew, half fire, To Laura and to love was vowed — He looked on one, v/ho with the crowd Mingled, but mixed ; not on whose cheek There was a blush, as if she knew Whose look was fixed on her's. Her eye, Of a spring-sky's delicious blue, Had not the language of that bloom, But mingling tears, and light, and gloom, Was raised abstractedly to Heaven : — No sign was to her lover given. I painted her with golden tresses, Such as float on the wind's caresses When the laburnums wildly fling Their sunny blossoms to the spring. A cheek which had the crimson hue Upon the sun-touched nectarine ; A lip of perfume and of dew ; A brow like twilight's darkened line. I strove to catch each charm that long Has lived, — thanks to her lover's song! Each grace he numbered one by one, That shone in her of Avignon. I ever thought that poet's fate Utterly lone and desolate. It is the spirit's bitterest pain To love, to be beloved again ; And yet between a gulf which ever The hearts that burn to meet must sever. And he was vowed to one sweet star, Bright yet to him, but bright afar. LETITIA ELIZABETH LAND ON. 277 THE LOU OF A POETESS. (fkom the same.) I loved him as young Genius loves, When its own wild and radiant heaven Of starry thought burns with the light, The love, the life, by passion given. I loved him, too, as woman loves — Reckless of sorrow, sin, or scorn : Life had no evil destiny That, with him, I could not have borne ! I had been nurst in palaces ; Yet earth had not a spot so drear, That I should not have thought a home In Paradise, had he been near ! How sweet it would have been to dwell, Apart from all, in some green dell Of sunny beauty, leaves and flowers ; And nestling birds to sing the hours ! Our home, beneath some chestnut's shade. But of the woven branches made : Our vesper hymn, the low, lone wail The rose hears from the nightingale ; And waked at morning by the call Of music from a waterfall. But not alone in dreams like this, Breathed in the very hope of bliss, I loved : my love had been the same In hushed despair, in open shame. I would have rather been a slave, In tears, in bondage, by his side. Than shared in all, if wanting him, This world had power to give beside ! 24 278 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON My heart was withered, — and my heart Had ever been the world to me ; And love had been the first fond dream, Whose life was in reality. I had sprung from my solitude, Like a young bird upon the wing To meet the arrow; so 1 met My poisoned shaft of suffering. And as that bird, with drooping crest And broken wing will seek his nest, But seek in vain ; so vain I sought My pleasant home of song and thought There was one spell upon my brain, Upon my pencil, on my strain ; But one face to my colours came; My chords replied but to one name — Lorenzo! — all seemed vowed to thee, To passion, and to misery ! I had no interest in the things That once had been like life, or light; No tale was pleasant to mine ear, No song was sweet, no picture bright. 1 was wild with my great distress, My lone, my utter hopelessness ! I would sit hours by the side Of some clear rill, and mark it glide, Bearing my tears along, till night Came with dark hours ; and soft starlight Watch o'er its shadowy beauty keeping, Till I grew calm : — then I would take The lute, which had all day been sleeping Upon a cypress tree, and wake The echoes of the midnight air With words that love wrung from despair. LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON, 279 LOVE, HOPE, AND BEAUTY. Love may be increased by fears, May be fanned with sighs, Nurst by fancies, fed by doubts ; But without Hope it dies ! As in the far Indian isles Dies the young cocoa tree, Unless within the pleasant shade Of the parent plant it be : So Love may spring up at first Lighted at Beauty's eyes : — But Beauty is not all its life, For without Hope it dies. LINES OF LIFE. Orphan in my first years, I early learnt To make my heart suffice itself, and seek Support and sympathy in its own depths. Well, read my cheek, and watch my eye, Too strictly schooled are they One secret of my soul to show, One hidden thought betray. I never knew the time my heart Looked freely from my brow ; It once was checked by timidness, 'T is taught by caution now. I live among the cold, the false, And I must seem like them; And such I am, for I am false As those I most condemn. 280 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON I teach my lip its sweetest smile, My tongue its softest tone : I borrow others' likeness, till Almost I lose my own. I pass through flattery's gilded sieve, Whatever I would say ; In social life, all, like the blind, Must learn to feel their way. I check my thoughts like curbed steeds That struggle with the rein; I bid my feelings sleep, like wrecks In the unfathomed. main. I hear them speak of love, the deep, The true, and mock the name ; Mock at all high and early truth, And I too do the same. I hear them tell some touching tale, I swallow down the tear; I hear them name some generous deed, And I have learnt to sneer. I hear the spiritual, the kind, The pure, but named in mirth ; Till all of good, ay, even hope, Seems exiled from our earth. And one fear, withering ridicule, Is all that 1 can dread ; A sword hung by a single hair For ever o'er the head. We bow to a most servile faith, In a most servile fear ; LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 281 While none among us dares to say What none will choose to hear. And if we dream of loftier thoughts, In weakness they are gone ; And indolence and vanity Rivet our fetters on. Surely I was not born for this ! I feel a loftier mood Of generous impulse, high resolve, Steal o'er my solitude ! I gaze upon the thousand stars That fill the midnight sky ; And wish, so passionately wish, A light like theirs on high. I have such eagerness of hope To benefit my kind ; And feel as if immortal power Were given to my mind. I think on that eternal fame, The sun of earthly gloom, Which makes the gloriousness of death, The future of the tomb — That earthly future, the faint sign Of a more heavenly one ; — A step, a word, a voice, a look, — Alas ! my dream is done. And earth, and earth's debasing stain, Again is on my soul ; And I am but a nameless part Of a most worthless whole. 24* 282 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. Why write I this ? because my heart Towards the future springs, That future Avhere it loves to soar On more than eagle wings. The present, it is but a speck In that eternal time, In which my lost hopes find a home, My spirit knows its clime. ! not myself, — for what am I ? The worthless and the weak, Whose every thought of self should raise A blush to burn my cheek. But song has touched my lips with fire, And made my heart a shrine ; For what, although alloyed, debased, Is in itself divine. 1 am myself but a vile link Amid life's weary chain ; But I have spoken hallowed words, O do not say in vain ! My first, my last, my only wish, Say will my charmed chords Wake to the morning light of fame, And breathe again my words ? Will the young maiden, when her tears Alone in moonlight shine — Tears for the absent and the loved Murmur some song of mine ? Will the pale youth by his dim lamp Himself a dying flame, LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 283 From many an antique scroll beside, Choose that which bears my name ? Let music make less terrible The silence of the dead ; I care not so my spirit last Long after life has fled. WHEN SHOULD LOVERS BREATHE THEIR VOWS, When should lovers breathe their vows ? When should ladies hear them ? When the dew is on the boughs, When none else are near them ; When the moon shines cold and pale, When the birds are sleeping, When no voice is on the gale, When the rose is weeping ; When the stars are bright on high, Like hopes in young Love's dreaming, And glancing round the light clouds fly, Like soft fears to shade their beaming. The fairest smiles are those that live On the brow by starlight wreathing; And the lips their richest incense give When the sigh is at midnight breathing. O, softest is the cheek's love-ray When seen by moonlight hours, Other roses seek the day, But blushes are night flowers. O, when the moon and stars are bright, When the dew-drops glisten, Then their vows should lovers plight, Then should ladies listen! 284 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. THE LITTLE SHROUD. She put him on a snow-white shroud, A chaplet on his head ; And gathered early primroses To scatter o'er the dead. She laid him in his little grave — 'T was hard to lay him there, When spring was putting forth its flowers, And every thing was fair. She had lost many children — now The last of them was gone ; And day and night she sat and wept Beside the funeral stone. One midnight, while her constant tears Were falling with the dew, She heard a voice, and lo ! her child Stood by her weeping too ! His shroud was damp, his face was white, He said, — "I cannot sleep, Your tears have made my shroud so wet, O, mother, do not weep !" O, love is strong ! — the mother's heart Was filled with tender fears ; O, love is strong ! — and for her child Her grief restrained its tears. One eve a light shone round her bed, And there she saw him stand — Her infant in his little shroud, A taper in his hand. LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 285 " Lo ! mother, see my shroud is dry, And I can sleep once more !" And beautiful the parting smile The little infant wore. And down within the silent grave He laid his weary head ; And soon the early violets Grew o'er his grassy bed. The mother went her household ways- Again she knelt in prayer, And only asked of Heaven its aid Her heavy lot to bear. EXPECTATION. She looked from out the window With long and asking gaze, From the gold clear light of morning To the twilight's purple haze. Cold and pale the planets shone, Still the girl kept gazing on. From her white and weary forehead Droopeth the dark hair, Heavy with the dews of evening, Heavier with her care ; Falling as the shadows fall, Till flung round her like a pall. When from the carved lattice First she leant to look, Her bright face was written Like some pleasant book ; Her warm cheek the red air quaffed, And her eyes looked out and laughed. 286 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON, She is leaning back now languid, And her cheek is white, Only on the drooping eyelash Glistens tearful light. Colour, sunshine hours are gone, Yet the lady watches on. Human heart, this history Is thy fated lot, Even such thy watching, For what cometh not. Till with anxious waiting dull, Round thee fades the beautiful, Still thou seekest on, though weary Seeking still in vain : Daylight deepens into twilight, What has been thy gain ! Death and night are closing round, All that thou hast sought unfound. THE FORGOTTEN ONE. No shadow rests upon the place Where once thy footsteps roved ; Nor leaf, nor blossom, bears a trace Of how thou wert beloved. The very night dew disappears Too soon, as if it spread its tears. Thou art forgotten ! — thou, whose feet Were listened for like song ! They used to call thy voice so sweet ; — It did not haunt them long. Thou, with thy fond and fairy mirth — How could they bear their lonely hearth ? LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 287 There is no picture to recall Thy glad and open brow ; No profiled outline on the wall Seems like thy shadow now ; They have not even kept to wear One ringlet of thy golden hair. When here we sheltered last, appears But just like yesterday ; It startles me to think that years Since then are passed away. The old oak tree that was our tent, No leaf seems changed, no bough seems rent. A shower in June — >a summer shower, Drove us beneath the shade ; A beautiful and greenwood bower The spreading branches made, The raindrops shine upon the bough, The passing rain — but where art thou ? But I forget how many showers Have washed this old oak tree, The winter and the summer hours Since I stood here with thee : And I forget how chance a thought Thy memory to my heart has brought. I talk of friends who once have wept, As if they still should weep ; I speak of grief that long has slept, As if it could not sleep ; I mourn o'er cold forgetfulness, Have I, myself, forgotten less ? 288 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. I 've mingled with the young and fair, Nor thought how there was laid One fair and young as any there, In silence and in shade. How could I see a sweet mouth shine With smiles, and not remember thine ? Ah ! it is well we can forget, Or who could linger on Beneath a sky whose stars are set, On earth whose flowers are gone ? For who could welcome loved ones near, Thinking of those once far more dear, Our early friends, those of our youth ? We cannot feel again The earnest love, the simple truth, Which made us such friends then. We grow suspicious, careless, cold ; We love not as we loved of old. No more a sweet necessity, Love must and will expand, Loved and beloving we must be, With open heart and hand, Which only ask to trust and share The deep affections which they bear. Our love was of that early time ; And now that it is past, It breathes as of a purer clime Than where my lot is cast, My eyes fill with their sweetest tears In thinking of those early years. LETITIA ELIZABETH LAN DON. 289 It shocked me first to see the sun Shine gladly o'er thy tomb ; To see the wild flowers o'er it run In such luxuriant bloom. Now I feel glad that they should keep A bright sweet watch above thy sleep. The heaven whence thy nature came Only recalled its own ; It is Hope that now breathes thy name, Though borrowing Memory's tone. I feel this earth could never be The native home of one like thee. Farewell ! the early dews that fall Upon thy grass-grov/n bed, Are like the thoughts that now recall Thine image from the dead. A blessing hallows thy dark cell — I will not stay to weep. Farewell ! THE CHANGED HOME. I left my home; — 'twas in a little vale, Sheltered from snow-storms by the stately pines ; A small clear river wandered quietly, Its smooth waves only cut by the light barks Of fishers, and but darkened by the shade The willows flung, when to the southern wind They threw their long green tresses. On the slope Were five or six white cottages, whose roofs Reached not to the laburnum's height, whose boughs Shook over them bright showers of golden bloom. Sweet silence reigned around : — no other sound Came on the air, than when the shepherd made 25 t 290 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. The reed-pipe rudely musical, or notes From the wild birds or children in their play Sending forth shouts or laughter. Strangers came Rarely or never near the lonely place. . . . I went into far countries. Years past by, But still that vale in silent beauty dwelt Within my memory. Home I came at last. I stood upon a mountain height, and looked Into the vale below ; and smoke arose, And heavy sounds •, and thro' the thick dim air Shot blackened turrets, and brick walls, and roofs Of the red tile. I entered in the streets : There were ten thousand hurrying to and fro ; And masted vessels stood upon the river, And barges sullied the once dew-clear stream. Where were the willows, where the cottages ? I sought my home ; I sought and found a city, — Alas ! for the green valley ! SONG. The dream on the pillow That flits with the day, The leaf of the willow A breath wears away ; The dust on the blossom, The spray on the sea : Ay — ask thine own bosom — Are emblems of thee. When I trust the dark waters, And tempests are near, List the blue sea's false daughters. And think not on fear — ■ LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 291 Oh then I '11 believe thee As once I believed, Nor dread thou 'It deceive me As thou hast deceived. When the rose blooms at Christmas, I'll trust thee again, Or the snow falls in summer, — But never till then! SONG. What was our parting ? — one wild kiss. How wild I may not say, One long and breathless clasp, and then As life were past away. We parted, — I to weep o'er all My young heart's great excess Of passion, you to dream your love Into forgetfulness. What has our absence been ? a long And dreary while to me •, And must I feel — I dare not ask What it has been to thee? How shall we meet on either side, With heart so light as thine ? On yours it may be fond again, It will be cold on mine ! CRESCENTITJS. 1 looked upon his brow, — no sign Of guilt or fear was there ; He stood as proud by that death-shrine As even o'er Despair 292 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. He had a power; in his eye There was a quenchless energy, A spirit that could dare The deadliest form that Death could take, And dare it for the daring's sake. He stood, the fetters on his hand, — He raised them haughtily ; And had that grasp been on the brand It could not wave on high With freer pride than it waved now. Around he looked with changeless brow On many a torture nigh : The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel, And, worst of all, his own red steel. I saw him once before ; he rode Upon a coal-black steed, And tens of thousands thronged the road And bade their warrior speed. His helm, his breastplate, were of gold, And graved with many a dint that told Of many a soldier's deed ; The sun shone on his sparkling mail, And danced his snow-plume on the gale. But now he stood chained and alone, The headsman by his side; The plume, the helm, the charger, gone ; The sword, which had defied The mightiest, lay broken near; And yet no sign or sound of fear Came from that lip of pride ; And never king or conqueror's brow Wore higher look than his did now. LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 293 He bent beneath the headsman's stroke With an uncovered eye ; A wild shout from the numbers broke Who thronged to see him die. It was a people's loud acclaim, The voice of anger and of shame, A nation's funeral cry, Rome's wail above her only son, Her patriot, and her latest one. THE VENTURE OF A POET. It is a fearful stake the poet casts, When he comes forth from his sweet solitude Of hopes, and songs, and visionary things, To ask the iron verdict of the world. Till then his home has been in fairyland, Sheltered in the sweet depths of his own heart ; But the strong need of praise impels him forth ; For never was there poet but he craved That golden sunshine of secure renown, That sympathy which is the life of fame. It is full dearly bought : henceforth he lives Feverish and anxious, in an unkind world, That only gives the laurel to the grave. SUCCESS. Few know of life's beginnings — men behold The goal achieved ; — the warrior, when his sword Flashes red triumph in the noonday sun ; The poet, when his lyre hangs on the palm ; The statesman, when the crowd proclaim his voice, And mould opinion, on his gifted tongue : They count not life's first steps, and never think 25* 294 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. Upon the many miserable hours When hope deferred was sickness to the heart. They reckon not the battle and the march, The long privations of a wasted youth ; They never see the banner till unfurled. What are to them the solitary nights Past pale and anxious by the sickly lamp, Till the young poet wins the world at last To listen to the music long his own ? The crowd attend the statesman's fiery mind That makes their destiny ; but they do not trace Its struggle, or its long expectancy. Hard are life's early steps ; and, but that youth Is buoyant, confident, and strong in hope, Men would behold its threshold, and despair. THE FLOATING BEACON. Why art thou thus, thou lonely bark, The last on the darkling sea ? Why are thy sails to the night-wind spread, And why shines that light on thee ? Why art thou here, thou lonely bark, When the other ships are gone ? I deemed thee away, with those to-day ; But still thou art sailing alone. There came a voice from the lonely bark, Or mine own thoughts answered to me : Spread is my sail to the midnight gale, And my light shines lone on the sea ; For my watch is by the shoal and the sand, And the rock that is hidden by night, And many a mariner kneels at home, And blesses the beacon liajht. LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 295 Is not my light like that holier light That heaven sheds over life's path, Thought not of, prized not in stillness and shine, But welcomed in darkness and wrath ! CHANGE. And this is what is left of youth ! . . . There were two boys, who were bred up together, Shared the same bed, and fed at the same board ; Each tried the other's sport, from their first chase, Young hunters of the butterfly and bee, To when they followed the fleet hare, and tried The swiftness of the bird. They lay beside The silver trout stream, watching as the sun Played on the bubbles : shared each in the store Of either's garden : and together read Of him the master of the desert isle, Till a low hut, a gun, and a canoe, Bounded their wishes. Or if ever came A thought of future days, 't was but to say That they would share each other's lot, and do Wonders, no doubt. But this was vain : they parted With promises of long remembrance, words Whose kindness was the heart's, and those warm tears, Hidden like shame by the young eyes which shed them, But which are thought upon in after years As what we would give worlds to shed once more. They met again, — but different from themselves, At least what each remembered of themselves : The one proud as a soldier of his rank, And of his many battles : and the other Proud of his Indian wealth, and of the skill And toil which gathered it ; each with a brow 296 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. And heart alike darkened by years and care. They met with cold words, and yet colder looks : Each was changed in himself, and yet each thought The other only changed, himself the same. And coldness bred dislike, and rivalry Came like the pestilence o'er some sweet thoughts That lingered yet, healthy and beautiful, Amid dark and unkindly ones. And they, Whose boyhood had not known one jarring word. Were strangers in their age : if their eyes met, 'T was but to look contempt, and when they spoke, Their speech was wormwood ! . . . . . - . And this, this is life ! THE SNOWDROP. Thou beautiful new comer, With white and maiden brow ; Thou fairy gift from summer, Why art thou blooming now ? This dim and sheltered alley Is dark with winter green ; Not such as in the valley At sweet spring time is seen. The lime tree's tender yellow, The aspen's silvery sheen, With mingling colours mellow The universal green. Now solemn yews are bending 'Mid gloomy fires around ; And in long dark wreaths descending, The ivy sweeps the ground. No sweet companion pledges Thy health as dewdrops pass ; LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 297 No rose is on the hedges, No violet in the grass. Thou art watching, and thou only Above the earth's snow tomb , Thus lovely, and thus lonely, I bless thee for thy bloom. Though the singing rill be frozen, While the wind forsakes the west, Though the singing birds have chosen Some lone and silent rest; Like thee, one sweet thought lingers In a heart else cold and dead, Though the summer's flowers, and singers, And sunshine, long hath fled : 'Tis the love for long years cherished, Yet lingering, lorn, and lone ; Though its lovelier lights have perished, And its earlier hopes are flown. Though a weary world hath bound it, With many a heavy thrall, And the cold and changed surround it, It blossometh o'er all. THE WIDOW'S MITE. It is the fruit of waking hours When others are asleep, When moaning round the low-thatched roof The winds of winter creep. It is the fruit of summer days Passed in a gloomy room, When others are abroad to taste The pleasant morning bloom. 298 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON, 'T is given from a scanty store, And missed while it is given ; 'T is given — for the claims of earth Are less than those of heaven. Few save the poor feel for the poor; The rich know not how hard It is to be of needful food And needful rest debarred. Their paths are paths of plenteousness ; They sleep on silk and down, And never think how heavily The weary head lies down. They know not of the scanty meal With small pale faces round ; No fire upon the cold, damp hearth, When snow is on the ground. They never by their window sit, And see the gay pass by ; Yet take their weary work again, Though with a mournful eye. The rich, they give — 'they miss it not — A blessing cannot be Like that which rests, thou widowed one, Upon thy gift and thee! LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 299 LAST VERSES OF L. E. L. IN ALLUSION TO THE POLE STAR, DURING HER VOYAGE TO AFRICA. A star has left the kindling sky — « A lovely northern light ; How many planets are on high ! But that has left the night. I miss its bright familiar face, It was a friend to me ; Associate with my native place, And those beyond the sea. It rose upon our English sky, Shone o'er our English land, And brought back many a loving eye, And many a gentle hand. It seemed to answer to my thought, It called the past to mind, And with its welcome presence brought All I had left behind. The voyage it lights no longer, ends Soon on a foreign shore ; How can I but recall the friends That I may see no more ? Fresh from the pain it was to part — How could 1 bear the pain ? Yet strong the omen in my heart That says — We meet again. 300 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. Meet with a deeper, dearer love ; For absence shows the worth Of all from which we then remove, Friends, home, and native earth. Thou lovely polar star, mine eyes Still turned the first on thee Till I have felt a sad surprise, That none looked up with me. But thou hast sunk upon the wave, Thy radiant place unknown ; I seem to stand beside a grave, And stand by it alone. Farewell ! ah, would to me were given A power upon thy light ! What words upon our English heaven Thy loving rays should write ! Kind messages of love and hope Upon thy rays should be ; Thy shining orbit should have scope Scarcely enough for me. Oh, fancy vain, as it is fond, And little needed too; My friends ! 1 need not look beyond My heart to look for you. LADY FLORA HASTINGS, Eldest daughter of Francis, Marquis of Hastings, born 1806. From early life she was devoted to study, many of her pieces showing an intimate familiarity with ancient and modern languages. She was appointed Lady of the Bedchamber to the Duchess of Kent, and while in this station an enlargement of her liver excited rash suspicions of her virtue, to which the virgin heiress to the throne of England, keenly anxious for the character of her court, and misled by Sir James Clark's inexcusable misjudgment of the case, unhappily listened. The deeply- injured lady, eminent for beauty, accomplishment, talents and piety, suffered but for a brief season in the public estimation, and died, amidst universal expressions of sympathy and mournful esteem, at Buckingham Palace, July 5th, 1839. Her poems, collected by herself, were pub- lished after her death by her affectionate sister. They are sweet and musical, constituting from the purity and holiness of their sentiments a triumphant refutation of the cruel calumnies which shadowed the close of her excellent life. SONG. When first I met thee, on thy brow The light of fancy played, And brightly beamed the eyes which now Those downcast lashes shade. Thou movedst an airy form of light, A thing almost divine ; I might not dim thy fortunes bright By love so sad as mine. 26 (301) 302 LADY FLORA HASTINGS. For I had seen the dreams depart Which once illusion shed ; Had known the dullness of the heart When youth's gay charm is fled. Thou wert so blest, thou couldst not share The darkness of my doom ; Thou wert a flower too sweet, too rare, To cheer the desert's gloom. But years are past, and thou hast known Youth's noon-dreams fade away ; The light of cloudless mirth is flown, And rapture's fleeting ray. Chastened and calm the hope appears That gilds thy placid brow •, Sweet sister! in this vale of tears, I dare to love thee now. ITALY. Oh ! name it not, there is a spell Around its memory clinging, To which I would not bid farewell For all the future's bringing. The skies of radiant Italy ! Oh ! they are deeply blue ; And nothing save their kindred waves Can match their sapphire hue. No little clouds e'er flit across, To dim their heavenly light; Would that my soul were pure as they, As spotless and as bright ! The gales of balmy Italy ! Oh.' as they fleet along, LADY FLORA HASTINGS. 303 They bear upon their downy wings The treasured wealth of song. They linger through the blooming scenes Where once my footsteps roved ; And they are free, though I am not, To kiss the flowers I loved. The songs of tuneful Italy ! They wake within the heart Those visions of the olden time, Which will not thence depart. And freedom, love, and honour bright, Rise from the dust again. Would that my feeble lyre could wake The spirit-stirring strain ! The flowers of sunny Italy ! Oh! blissful is their doom; A brief, bright space to bloom, then sink Untrodden to the tomb. Still breathing fragrance as they droop Beneath the golden ray; Oh thus were 't mine to sigh my soul In ecstasy away! The tombs of holy Italy ! The earth where heroes trod; Where sainted martyrs glorified In death th' Incarnate God ! Where all is bright, and pure, and calm, On earth, in air, and sea. O Italy ! amongst thy tombs, Hast thou not one for me ? 304 LADY FLORA HASTINGS. THE SWAN SONG. Grieve not that I die young. — Is it'not well To pass away ere life hath lost its brightness ? Bind me no longer, sisters, with the spell Of love and your kind words. List ye to me : Here I am blessed — but I would be more free ; I would go forth in all my spirit's lightness. Let me depart ! Ah ! who would linger till bright eyes grow dim, Kind voices mute, and faithful bosoms cold ? Till carking care, and coil, and anguish grim, Cast their dark shadows o'er this faery world ; Till fancy's many-coloured wings are furled, And all, save the proud spirit, w r axeth old ? I would depart ! Thus would I pass away — yielding my soul A joyous thank-offering to Him wbo gave That soul to be, those starry orbs to roll. Thus — thus exultingly would I depart, Song on my lips, ecstasy in my heart. Sisters — sweet sisters, bear me to my grave — Let me depart! MARY-ANNE BROWNE, (MRS. GRAY,) Was born in 1812, at Maiden Head, Berkshire. She published as early as 1827 her Mount Blanc, in 1828 Ada, and in 1829 Repentance ; The Coronal, 1834; Birth-Day Gift, 1836; Ignatia, 1839; besides many smaller pieces, particularly a series of poems on classical subjects, in the Dublin University Magazine. Her father removing to Liver- pool about 1830, she enjoyed the advantage of Mr. Roscoe's literary friendship, and subsequently that of the Rev. Hugh M'Neile, at whose instigation she published in 1840 a small volume of Sacred Poetry. In 1842 she was married to an estimable Scotch gentleman of literary taste, Mr. James Gray, a favourite nephew of the Ettrick Shepherd. She died at Cork, in 1844. Miss Browne's poetry, though not of a high order, is characterized by pure taste, just sentiment, a strong relish for classical examples, and an unaffected piety which won for her the warm esteem of all who knew her in domestic life. THE FORGOTTEN. They have forgotten thee — and yet How beautiful wert thou ! The light of holiness seemed set Upon thy lovely brow ; And ever, 'neath thy soft dark eye, Affection's fountain seemed to lie. They saw thee fading in thy youth, And shrunk with mournful fears, Dreading to look upon the truth, Thinking thereon with tears, Hoping, when hope was wild and vain, — A sad relief from present pain. 26* u ( 305 ) 306 MARY-ANNE BROWNE. I stood with them beside the bed, Where lay thy mortal frame, And oh ! what bitter tears we shed Murmuring thy sainted name, Linked to expressions fond and dear Which thou in life hadst loved to hear! Yes, in that chamber's solemn gloom, What idle vows were made ! Methought their anguish for thy doom Could never more be staid. It seemed as if all happy glee Had from their dwelling passed with thee But this is changed — a few short years And thou art with the past; Thy name unseals no source of tears, And scarce a shade is cast When thou art mentioned, by some chance, On the light tone or mirthful glance. They used to go as pilgrims oft To weep beside thy grave — Now may the summer dews fall soft, Or wintry tempests rave, Yet no familiar foot hath pressed The turf of thy lone place of rest. They would not own thy lessened power, And yet — a fallen star — A perished bird — a last year's flower, As much remembered are ; Even he, whose heart seemed wholly thine, Is kneelinsr at another's shrine. MARY-ANNE BROWNE. 307 I look upon the silken hair I treasure for thy sake — And wonder others do not share The thoughts it can awake ; Strange that I keep thy mem'ry yet, When nearer friends can so forget. SHE WAS NOT MADE FOR HAPPINESS. She was not made for happiness; her eyes Were all too soft and deep, Shade 'midst their radiance — as in lovely skies Of April when they weep. Yet when she spake with earnest eloquence, The soul beneath them burned As if her thoughts concentred and intense, Them into stars had turned. She was not made for happiness ; her brow Had lines of early thought, Traced e'en in childhood's sunny time, and now Still daily deeper wrought. And her sweet lips ! they were not chiselled forms, Such as the sculptor knows, The quivering smile, that saddens while it warms, Hung o'er their rose. She was not made for happiness ; too much She felt for others' woe, What to another's heart was but a touch, Hers felt a cruel blow. No tale of suffering, sorrow, or disease, But found an echo there — A wounded bird — a broken flower — e'en these Her sympathy might share. 308 MARY-ANNE BROWNE. She was not made for happiness ; and yet Too much of ours she made. With what unmingled anguish and regret We saw her droop and fade ! Suffering had seemed her birthright dower, Years of sad pain went o'er, And yet we loved our frail and feeble flower Even for this the more. But standing by her dying bed, we felt A better prospect dawn ; A mist around her spirit seemed to melt, A curtain seemed withdrawn. Bright happy glances from her eyes were sent Up through the summer sky — Ah! now she knew her own true element, The better world on high. And hopefully she spake, and happily Of communings with God — Of light and glory, that we could not see, Upon the path she trod. A setting sunbeam from her cloudy lot At length broke brightly forth — Oh ! she was made for happiness — but not The happiness of earth. the s KY. Fair sky ! what hast thou in the time of spring ? Birds, borne along on the joyous wing; Feathery clouds and fleeting showers; Odours, breathed up from the fresh-blown flowers ; Echoes of voices and song on earth, Of the child's light laugh, and the peasant's mirth ; MARY-ANNE BROWNE. 309 Blue gleams, bright from the sun-ray's kiss, And trembling as if from excess of bliss. And what is thine in the summer's eve, When the full bright sun hath taken his leave ? Clouds, that are rich as young Hope's dreams, — ■ Rainbow colouring, and amber beams ; Flushes of crimson glory, growing, Like a maiden's blush more intensely glowing Beneath the ardent gazer's view ; Purple twilight, and fragrant dew. What hast thou in the depth of night ? Grandeur and beauty, and calm moonlight ; Stars, bright stars, on their thrones on high ; Making their voiceless melody. Prayers, sent up from the sleepless bed ; Sounds of the weary sentinel's tread; Murmurs of forests, by light winds stirred, And sweet, sweet music, from night's own bird. What is below thee ? A land of sin, Where sorrow and death have entered in ; Where tears have darkened the brightest eyes, And the rosiest lip breathes forth sad sighs ; Where the sunny curls blanch with the hand of time, And the purest spirits are tinged with crime ; Where the flowers, and the trees, and the birds must die ; And all things tell of mortality. What is beyond thee ? A world where the power Of time cannot wither a single flower; Where the earthly stains of our human clay, In the streams of mercy are washed away ; 310 MARY-ANNE BROWNE. Where there comes not a shade o'er the tranquil brow ; Where the voice never sounds in one tone of woe. Fair sky! we forget half our sorrow and care, When we gaze upon thee, and think — heaven is there ! THY WILL BE DONE. It is a short and simple prayer; But 'tis the Christian's stay, Through eveiy varied scene of care, Until his dying day. As through the wilderness of life, Calmly he wanders on, His prayer in every time of strife Is still " Thy will be done !" When in his happy infant years He treads 'midst thornless flowers ; When pass away his smiles and tears Like April suns and showers : Then, kneeling by its parents' hearth, Play-tired, at set of sun, What is the prayer he murmurs forth ? — " Father ! — ■ thy will be done." When the bright summer sky of time, Cloudless, is o'er him spread ; When love's bright wreath is in its prime, With not one blossom dead : Whilst o'er his hopes, and prospects fair, No mist of woe hath gone ; Still, he repeats the first taught prayer — " Father, thy will be done !" CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH. 311 But when his sun no longer beams, And love's sweet flowers decay ; When all hope's rainbow-coloured dreams Are sadly wept away ; As a flower bent beneath the storm Still fragrantly breathes on ; So when dark clouds life's heaven deform, He prays, — '"Thy will be done!" And when the winter of his age Sheds o'er his locks its snows ; When he can feel his pilgrimage Fast drawing to a close : Then, as he finds his strength decline, This is his prayer alone ; u To thee my spirit I resign — Father ! thy will be done !" CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH, (MRS. TONNA.) This voluminous writer, whose prose works have had an extraordi- nary run of popularity among that class of religious persons known as evangelical, wrote many brief poetical pieces which were inspired by affection or devotion. They partake of the characteristics exhibited in her other writings, and have the merits of smoothness and ease. She seems to have set little store by her poetical pieces, seldom retaining copies of them in her possession ; and it was not without difficulty that the scattered leaves inscribed by her pen between the years 1817 and 1845, were collected for publication after her decease. In 1841 she was married to Lucius H. Joseph Tonna, a gentleman of some literary pretensions much younger than herself, who seems to have cherished for her a sincere affection. For many years of her life she was afflicted with deafness, which made her seek with greater zest the solace of literary occupation. She died 12th of July, 1846. 312 CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH. TOGETHER AND A I. O N E . Oh sweet it is, through life's dark way, In Christian fellowship to move, Illumed by one unclouded ray, And one in faith, in hope, in love. Sweet is the ever beaming face Of friendship long and freely known, As in the mirror's orb to trace Each fleeting thought that marks our own. But bid the severed pilgrim wend Lonely along his chequered road, Remove the hand was wont to tend His faltering steps and share his load. Triumphantly his soul can rise Above the fate that calls to part, It cannot rend the sacred ties Entwined around that kindred heart. Oh ! glorious privilege to feel, When sev'ring oceans roll between, Before one radiant throne they kneel, And mingle in a world unseen ! Spurning the reign of time and space, To one bright dwelling they repair, Soar to the spirit's resting-place, And pierce the veil, and anchor there. STANZAS. How beautiful, how bright, Through the soft gloom of night, Yon zone of lamps, girdling the river's pride! With many a varied dye They flash upon the eye, And glance reflected from the sparkling tide. CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH. 313 Yet from this darksome earth They date their unblest birth, And glow with but a base terrestrial :ire ; Beneath the coming day They sicken and decay, And quenched in sunbeams unobserved expire But, lo ! upon the stream Descends a living beam, And gently spreads a pale, calm, solemn ray, Nocturnal watch to keep, O'er those who plough the deep, Then blush and brighten into sunny day. In silver mantle clad The little waves seem glad, And blithely ripple, murmuring their delight ; Tall ships with swelling sail, And the weak shallop, hail Their guide, and scorn the perils of the night Be mine the calm light given From the high courts of heaven, Then earth's gay flames may glitter or may die ; I reck not of her toys, Vain hopes and empty joys, But bathe me in thy beams, O blest eternity. THE MARINER'S MIDNIGHT HYMN. O thou, who didst prepare The ocean's caverned cell, And lead the gathering waters there To meet and dwell : Tossed in our reeling bark, On this tumultuous sea, Thy wondrous ways, O Lora, we mark, And sing to thee. 27 314 CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH. How terrible art thou, In all thy wonders shown, Though veiled is that eternal brow, Thy steps unknown. Invisible to sight, But, oh ! to faith how near ; Beneath the gloomiest cloud of night Thou beamest here. Borne on the dark'ning wave In measured sweep we go, Nor dread th' unfathomable grave That yawns below ; For He is nigh who trod Amid that foaming spray, Whose billows owned th' incarnate God, And died away. Let slumber's balmy seal Imprint our tranquil eyes, Though deep beneath the waters steal, And circling rise. Though swells the confluent tide And beetles far above, — We know in whom our souls confide With fearless love. Snatched from a darker deep, And waves of wilder foam, Thou, Lord, those trusting souls wilt keep, And waft them home; Home, where no tempests sound, Nor angry waters roar, Nor troublous billows heave around The peaceful shore. MRS. AMELIA OPIE. Her maiden name was Alderlow. She married early John Opie (altered from Hoppy), the eminent historical and portrait painter, who succeeded Fuseli as lecturer to the Institution, was Professor of Paint- ing in the Royal Academy, and died 1807. Mrs. Opie began her lite- rary career in 1801 with the publication of a domestic tale, The Fa- ther and Daughter, which was followed by a number of others, making in all nineteen volumes of pathetic stories, too well known to need our comments. About the year 1826, she became, in remarkable contrast to her former habits as a writer of romances and the wife and biogra- pher of an artist, a member of the Society of Friends, and signalized her new faith by her Illustrations of Lying. Though now seldom spoken of as a poetical writer, Mrs. Opie published as early as 1802 a volume of Miscellaneous Poems, and some of her songs were great favourites at the time when the harpsichord had just yielded to the piano. In later years a volume of serious poems and a number of scat- tered pieces from her pen have appeared. Miss Sedgwick {Letters from Abroad, 1841) says : " I owed Mrs. Opie a grudge for having made me in my youth cry my eyes out over her stories ; but her fair, cheerful face forced me to forget it. She long ago forswore the world and its vanities, and adopted the Quaker faith and costume ; but I fancied that her elaborate simplicity, and the fashionable little train to her pretty satin gown, indicated how much easier it is to adopt a theory than to change one's habits." Go, youth beloved, to distant glades, New friends, new hopes, new joys to find ; Yet sometimes deign, midst fairer maids, To think on her thou leavest behind. Thy love, thy fate, dear youth, to share, Must never be my happy lot; Rrt thou mayest grant this humble prayer, Forget me not, Forget me not ! (315) 316 MRS. AMELIA OPIE. Yet should the thought of my distress Too painful to thy feelings be, Heed not the wish I now express, Nor ever deign to think of me. But oh ! if grief thy steps attend, If want, or sickness be thy lot, And thou require a soothing friend, Forget me not, Forget me not ! I know you false, I know you vain, Yet still I cannot break my chain ; Though with those lips so sweetly smiling, Those eyes so bright and so beguiling, On every youth by turns you smile, And every youth by turns beguile, Yet still enchant and still deceive me, Do all things, fatal fair, but leave me. Still let me in those sparkling eyes Trace all your feelings as they rise ; Still from those lips in crimson swelling Which seem of soft delights the dwelling, Catch tones of sweetness which the soul In fetters ever need control — Nor let my starts of passion grieve thee, 'T were death to stay, 't were death to leave thee. ADDRESS TO A DYING FRIEND. There is light on the hills, and the valley is past ! Ascend, happy pilgrim ! thy labours are o'er ! The sunshine of heaven around thee is cast, And thy weak doubting footsteps can falter no more. MRS. AMELIA OPIE. 317 On, Pilgrim, that hill richly circled with rays Is Zion ! Lo, there is " the city of saints !" And the beauties, the glories, that region displays, Inspiration's own language imperfectly paints. But the " gate of one pearl" to thee opened shall be, And thou all its beauties and glories behold : The Saviour an entrance has purchased for thee, And thy dwelling henceforth is the city of gold. The rustling of wings when thou readiest the gate Will announce the glad angels the sentinels there : Knock, pilgrim ! not long thou for entrance canst wait, For spirits like thee to those angels are dear. And, perhaps, in the portal, the glorified band Of kindred and friends long removed from thy sight, Breathing welcome and bliss around thee will stand, Arrayed in their garments of heavenly light. Transporting re-union ! bright meed of all those Who on earth bowed in meekness and faith to the rod, Still thankful alike, if the thorn or the rose, Was strewed on the pathway that led them to God. She has knocked, she has entered ! blest spirit, farewell ; We rejoice in thy bliss, though our loss we deplore ; It is joy that thou art where the blessed ones dwell; But, Oh ! it is grief we behold thee no more. 27* MARY RUSSELL MITFORD Was born in 1789, at Alnsford, Hampshire. Though best known and appreciated from her admirable prose sketches of rural life and rural scenes, she began her literary career as a poetical writer. Her first publication was a volume of Miscellaneous Poems, in 1^10; fol- lowed in 1811 by Christine, The Maid of the South Seas (a nautical tale of Pitcairn's Island) ; in 1812 by Wattington Hill ( a descriptive poem), and Narrative Poems on the Female Characters. After a stu- dious retirement of nearly twelve years, she reappeared as a dramatist by the production of Julian, a tragedy, the success of which, as a read- ing play, encouraged her to pursue her fame with Rienzi, The Vespers of Palermo, Foscari, and Charles the First. The first-named three were brought on the stage; but Rienzi, certainly the best of them, alone met with much favour. She published the first volume of Our Village in 1824, which was carried through four more ; the last appearing in 1832. Her Belford Regis, a description of a market-town, is characterized by the same graphic talent. Miss Mitford's early poems prove the absence of an ear for rhythm ; and her sense of natural beauty, so eloquent in prose, struggles in vain for expression through the difficulties of rhyme. She succeeds better in dramatic verse, and some of her scenes have much tragic power. Her study of the Greek dramatists, especially Euripides, is often distinctly traceable; and in the address of Claudia to Rienzi, as also in that of Annabel to Julian, we find the very thoughts of Iphige- nia pleading with Agamemnon. Her prose is simple, natural, and full of frank, kind-judging lovingness. Her autumnal landscape has all the soft brown beauty, with the exquisite finish of a Cuyp ; and we almost hear the rustling of the flags in the summer wind, as she leads us to chat with our familiar friend the Basket-maker, by the side of the pool. Her sunny spirit makes beautiful with light the most common- place scenes, and she has the rare faculty of concealing the coarseness of rustic poverty, while she presents the simple graces of homely good- feeling and sportive childhood. As a proof that we love her, we love her dog ; Walter Scott's stately Ma id a is not more an historical charac- ter, than her springing spaniel or Italian greyhound. If she began by being prosaic in poetry, she has redeemed herself by being most poetical in pastoral prose. (318; MARY RUSSELL M1TF0RD. 319 THE CHARM. (FROM THE RIVAL SISTERS.) It was not beauty ; for, in very truth, No symmetry of features decked the maid ; Was it the vivid blush of early youth; The Hebe lip, whose changeful dimples played, The flaxen locks, whose crisped ringlets strayed Over the blue dove-like eyes serene and mild ; The rose-tipped ringers that her toil betrayed ; The rounded form luxuriantly wild, Of summer graces full — the face so like a child ? Or was it the expression, calm and even, Which tells of blest inhabitants within ; A look as tranquil as the summer Heaven ; A smile that cannot light a face of sin ; A sweetness so composed that passion's din Its fair unruffled brow has never moved ; Beauty not of the features, nor the skin, But of the soul, — a loveliness best proved By one unerring test, no sooner seen than loved ? HER FRIEND. (FROM THE SAME.) Yes ! if a friend I sought, it should be one Who to such childish pleasures loves to bend ; Who seeks the shell upon the sea-beach thrown, And the light bud whose shape and colouring blend ; Whose feet the wild untrodden vale descend To seek the primrose pale, the violet fair, The robin's nest from plunderers to defend ; With the young brood her simple viands share, And smile with blameless joy at each successful care. 320 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. For good and happy is the glowing breast Whence, universal Love, thine essence springs . What though wit's cap'ring tribe, fondly unblest, Mock at the bliss thy joyous spirit brings ! What though they hold the beauties nature flings And her free denizens, as parts so small Of this fair world, such vile and useless things As wisdom scorns and folly dooms to fall ! Yet she whom Genius loves has love and care for all DEATH SCENE. (FROM JULIAN.) Julian. Annabel, look forth Upon this glorious world ! Look once again On our fair Sicily, lit by that sun Whose level beams do cast a golden shine On sea, and shore, and city, on the pride Of bowery groves ; on Etna's smouldering top ; — ■ Oh bright and glorious world ! and thou of all Created things most glorious, tricked in light, As the stars that live in heaven ! Annabel. Why dost thou gaze So sadly on me ? Jul. The bright stars, how oft They fall, or seem to fall ! The sun — look ! look ! He sinks, he sets in glory. Blessed orb, Like thee — like thee — Dost thou remember once We sat by the sea shore when all the heaven And all the ocean seemed one glow of fire, Red, purple, saffron, melted into one Intense and ardent flame, the doubtful line Where sea and sky should meet was lost in that Continuous brightness ; there we sate and talked Of the mysterious union that blessed orb MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 321 Wrought between earth and heaven, of life and death — High mysteries ! — and thou didst wish thyself A spirit sailing in that flood of light Straight to the Eternal Gates, didst pray to pass Away in such a glory. Annabel! Look out upon the burning sky, the sea One lucid ruby — 't is the very hour ! Thou 'It be a seraph at the Fount of Light Before Jinn. What, must I die ? And wilt thou kill me ? Canst thou ? Thou cam'st to save Jul. To save thy honour ! I shall die with thee. Ann. Oh no ! no ! live ! live ! If I must die — oh it is sweet to live, To breathe, to move, to feel the throbbing blood Beat in the veins, — to look on such an earth And such a heaven, — to look on thee ! Young life Is very dear. Jul. Would'st live for D'Alba ? Ann. No ! I had forgot. I '11 die. Quick ! Quick ! Jul. One kiss ! Angel, dost thou forgive me ? Ann. Yes. Jul. My sword ! — I cannot draw it. Ann. Now ! I 'm ready. CLAUDIA PLEADING FOR ANGELO. (FKOM RIENZI. ) Enter Claudia, hastily. Cla. Who dares to stop me ? Father ! [Rushes into the arms of Rienzi v 322 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. Rie. I bade ye guard the entrance. Cla. Against me ! Ye must have men and gates of steel to bar Claudia from her dear father. Where is he ? They said that he was with you — he — thou know'st Whom I would say. I heard ye loud. I thought I heard ye; but, perchance, the dizzying throb Of my poor temples — Where is he ? I see No corse — an 1 he were dead — 'Oh, no, no, no ! Thou couldst not, wouldst not ! Say he lives. Rie. As yet He lives. Cla. Oh ! blessing on thy heart, dear father ! Blessings on thy kind heart ! When shall I see him ? Is he in prison ? Fear hath made me weak, And wordless as a child. Oh ! send for him. Thou hast pardoned him ; didst thou not say but now Thou hadst pardoned him ? Rie. No. Cla. Oh, thou hast ! thou hast ! This is the dalliance thou wast wont to hold When I have craved some girlish boon, a bird, A flower, a moonlight walk ; but now I ask thee Life, more than life. Thou hast pardoned him ? Rie. My Claudia! Cla. Ay ! I am thine own Claudia, whose first word Was father ! These are the same hands that clung Around thy knees, a tottering babe ; the lips That, ere they had learnt speech, would smile, and seek To meet thee with an infant's kiss ; the eyes Thou hast called so like my mother's ; eyes that never Gazed on thee, but with looks of love. Oh, pardon ! Nay, father, speak not yet ; thy brows are knit Into a sternness. Pry'thee, speak not yet ! MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 323 Rie. This traitor — Cla. Call him as thou wilt, but pardon ; Oh, pardon ! [Kneels. Rie. He defies me. Cla. See, I kneel, And he shall kneel, shall kiss thy feet •, wilt pardon ? Rie. Mine own dear Claudia. Cla. Pardon ! Rie. Raise thee up ; Rest on my bosom ; let thy beating heart Lie upon mine ; so shall the mutual pang Be stilled. Oh ! that thy father's soul could bear This grief for thee, my sweet one ! Oh, forgive — Cla. Forgive thee what ? 'T is so the headsman speaks To his poor victim, ere he strikes. Do fathers Make widows of their children ? send them down To the cold grave heart-broken ? Tell me not Of fathers — I have none ! All else that breathes Hath known that natural love : The wolf is kind To her vile cubs ; the little wren hath care For each small youngling of her brood ; and thou — The word that widowed, orphaned me ? Henceforth My home shall be his grave ; and yet thou canst not — Father ! [Rushing into RienzPs arms. Rie. Ay! Dost call me father, once again, my Claudia ? Mine own sweet child ! Cla. Oh, father pardon him ! Oh pardon ! pardon ! 'T is my life I ask In his. Our lives, dear father ! 324 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. SONG. WELCOME TO A ER1DE. Hail to the gentle bride ! the dove High nested in the column's crest ! Oh, welcome as the bird of love Who bore the olive sign of rest ! Hail to the bride! Hail to the gentle bride! the flower Whose garlands round the column twine ! Oh! fairer than the citron bower! More fragrant than the blossomed vine ! Hail to the bride ! Hail to the gentle bride ! the star Whose radiance o'er the column beams ! Oh, soft as moonlight, seen afar, A silver shine on trembling streams ! Hail to the bride ! DOROTHEA PRIMROSE CAMPBELL, OF ZETLAND. This lady seems to have made the acquaintance of Walter Scott, during his visit, in July 1814, to the Shetland or Zetland isles, where she resided at Lerwick; and in 1816 she dedicated to him, with his permission, a volume of Poems, rather pleasing in their character and chiefly suggested by the wild, rough scenery around her native home. — We give one or two extracts from this Ultima Thule of our range : ADDRESS TO ZETLAND. " The land of Cakes" * has oft been sung In many a poet's strain ; But never might the '•' land of Fish" Such proud distinction gain. Oft wandering by thy sea-beach shore I wooed the pensive Muse ; Nor will the Genii of thy rocks, This votive lay refuse. Laxford dear, thy barren hills Fond mem'ry still must love ; To thee my wand'ring fancy turns, Where'er my footsteps rove. 1 dreamed not that a fairer spot On earth's broad bosom lay ; Nor ever wished my wand'ring feet Beyond its bounds to stray. And when I read of fairer fields Beyond the northern main ; And tow'ring trees, whose leafy arms Spread o'er the flow'ry plain ; * Scotland. 28 (325) 326 DOROTHEA PRIMROSE CAMPBELL Of rivers, through the verdant vale Meandering smooth and clear; Or when cascades their torrents dash, O'er precipices drear; I read — and fancy clothed thy steeps With darkling groves of pine ; Bright bloomed thy flow'rs, smooth flowed thy streams And ev'ry charm was thine. Soft on the weedy sea-beach stole The wave with murmur low ; And o'er the undulating tide Serener Zephyrs blow. MOONLIGHT. The winds of heaven are hushed and mild As the breath of slumbering child; The western bugle's balmy sigh Breaks not the mist-wreaths, as they lie Veiling the tall cliff's rugged brow, Nor dimple the green waves below. Such stillness round, — such silence deep — That nature seems herself to sleep. The full moon, mounted in the sky, Looks from her cloudless place on high. And trembling stars, like fairy gleams, Twinkle their many-coloured beams, Spangling the world of waters o'er With mimic gems from shore to shore ; Till ocean, burning on the view, Glows like another heav'n of blue, And its broad bosom as a mirror bright, Reflects their lucid path and all the fields of light. MRS. SOUTHEY, (CAROLINE BOWLES.) Caroline Anne Bowles was a sister of the Rev. William Bowles, for many years known to the public as the writer of very pleasing because nature-loving', unaffected and fine verses. In 1839, when past forty years of age, she became the second wife of the poet Southey, to whose declining and infirm age she ministered with devoted kindness, the offspring of kindred taste and admiring affection. She survives him. She has written several works which have won for her much favour in both her own and this country. Ellen Fitzarthur, 1820 ; The Widow's Tale and other Poems, 1822; The Birth-Day and other Poems, 1836; a Collection of Prose and Poetical Pieces, Solitary Hours, &c. From the last named, we give some of her best verses. AUTUMN FLOWERS. Those few pale Autumn flowers ! How beautiful they are ! Than all that went before, Than all the Summer store, How lovelier far ! And why ? — They are the last — The last! — the last! — the last! — O, by that little word, How many thoughts are stirred ! That sister of the past ! Pale flowers! — pale perishing flowers! Ye 're types of precious things ; Types of those bitter moments That flit, like life's enjoyments, On rapid, rapid wings. 1 r & (327) 328 MRS. SOUTHEY. Last hours with parting dear ones (That time the fastest spends), Last tears, in silence shed, Last words, half-uttered, Last looks of dying friends ! Who but would fain compress A life into a day ; The last day spent with one, Who, ere the morrow's sun, Must leave us and for aye ? 0, precious, precious moments ! Pale flowers ! ye 're types of those — • The saddest! sweetest! dearest! Because, like those, the nearest Is an eternal close. Pale flowers ! pale perishing flowers •' I woo your gentle breath ; I leave the summer rose For younger, blither brows, Tell me of change and death! TO A DYING INFANT. Sleep, little baby! sleep! Not in thy cradle bed, Not on thy mother's breast Henceforth shall be thy rest, But with the quiet dead. Yes, with the quiet dead, Baby ! thy rest shall be — Oh ! many a weary wight, Weary of life and light, Would fain lie down with thee ! MRS. SOUTHEY. 329 Flee, little tender mvrsling! Flee to thy grassy nest — There the first flowers shall blow, The first pure flake of snow Shall fall upon thy breast. Peace ! peace ! the little bosom Labours with shortening breath. Peace ! peace ! that tremulous sigh Speaks his departure nigh — Those are the damps of Death. I 've seen thee in thy beauty, A thing all health and glee ; But never then, wert thou So beautiful, as now, Baby ! thou seem'st to me. Thine upturned eyes glazed over Like harebells wet with dew — Already veiled and hid By the convulsed lid, Their pupils darkly blue. Thy little mouth half open, The soft lip quivering, As if, like summer air, Ruffling the rose-leaves, there Thy soul were fluttering. Mount up, immortal essence ! Young spirit! hence — depart! And is this Death ? Dread thing ! If such thy visiting, How beautiful thou art ! 28* 330 MRS. SOUTHEY. Oh ! I could gaze for ever Upon that waxen face, So passionless ! so pure ! The little shrine was sure An angel's dwelling-place. Thou weepest, childless mother' Ay, weep — 't will ease thine heart , He was thy first-born son — Thy first, thine only one ; 'T is hard from him to part. 'T is hard to lay thy darling Deep in the damp cold earth, His empty crib to see, His silent nursery, Late ringing with his mirth. To meet again in slumber His small mouth's rosy kiss, Then — wakened with a start By thine own throbbing heart — His twining arms to miss. And then to lie and weep, And think the livelong night (Feeding thine own distress With accurate greediness) Of every past delight. Of all his winning ways, His pretty, playful smiles, His joy at sight of thee, His tricks, his mimickry, And all his little wiles. MRS. SOUTIIEY. Oh ! these are recollections Round mothers' hearts that cling ! That mingle with the tears And smiles of after years, With oft awakening. But thou wilt then, fond mother, In after years, look back (Time brings such wondrous easing) With sadness not unpleasing, Even on this gloomy track. Thou 'It say, " My first-born blessing ! It almost broke my heart, When thou wert forced to go, And yet for thee, I know 'T was better to depart. "God took thee in his mercy, A lamb untasked — untried — He fought the field for thee — He won the victory — And thou art sanctified. « I look around, and see The evil ways of men, And oh, beloved child ! I'm more than reconciled To thy departure then. "The little arms that clasped me, The innocent lips that pressed, Would they have been as pure Till now, as when of yore I lull'd thee on my breast? 331 332 MRS. SOUTHEY. "Now, like a dewdrop shrined Within a crystal stone, Thou 'rt safe in heaven, my dove ! Safe with the Source of love. The everlasting One ! " And when the hour arrives, From flesh that sets me free, Thy spirit may await The first at heaven's gate, To meet and welcome me." I NEVER CAST A FLOWER AWAY I never cast a flower away, The gift of one who cared for me — A little flower — a faded flower — But it was done reluctantly. I never looked a last adieu To things familiar, but my heart Shrank with a feeling almost pain Even from their lifelessness to part. I never spoke the word " Farewell," But with an utterance faint and broken 5 An earth-sick longing for the time When it shall never more be spoken. THE PRIMROSE. I saw it in my evening walk, A little lonely flower! Under a hollow bank it grew, Deep in a mossy bower. MRS. SOUTHEY. 333 An oak's gnarled root, to roof the cave With Gothic fretwork sprung, Whence jewelled fern, and arum leaves, And ivy garlands hung. And from beneath came sparkling out From a fall'n tree's old shell, A little rill, that dipt about The lady in her cell. And there, methought, with bashful pride. She seemed to sit and look On her own maiden loveliness, Pale imaged in the brook. No other flower — no rival grew Beside my pensive maid ; She dwelt alone, a cloistered nun, In solitude and shade. No sunbeam on that fairy well Darted its dazzling light — Only, methought, some clear, cold star Might tremble there at night. No ruffling wind could reach her there — No eye, methought, but mine, Or the young lamb's that came to drink, Had spied her secret shrine. And there was pleasantness to me In such belief. Cold eyes That slight dear Nature's lowliness, Profane her mysteries. 334 MRS. SOUTHEY. Long time I looked and lingered there, Absorbed in still delight — My spirit drank deep quietness In, with that quiet sight. AU RA V E NI. Balmy freshness ! heavenly air, Cool, oh ! cool this burning brow \ Loose the fiery circlet there — Blessed thing ! I feel ye now. Blessed thing ! depart not yet, Let me, let me quaff my fill, Leave me not my soul to fret, Gasping for what mocks me still. Oh ! the weary, weary nights I 've lain awake and thought of thee ; Of clouds and corn — and all sweet sights, Of shade and sunshine, flower and tree \ Of running waters, rippling clear, Of greenwood glen, and gipsy camp ; Then how J loathed to see and hear That ticking watch, that sickly lamp ; And longed, at least for light again, For day — that brought no change to me • The weight was on my heart and brain ; God might remove it — only He. And now and then the fount of tears, So seeming dry, was free to flow ; 'T was worth a score of joyous years, That short-lived luxury of woe. MRS. SOUTHEY. 335 And in the midst of all my pain, 1 knew I was not quite forgot, I knew my cry was not in vain, So I was sad, but fainted not. And now the merciful command Has lightened what was worst to bear, And given of better clays at hand A foretaste in this blessed air. THE LAST JOURNEY. Michaud, in his description of an Egyptian funeral procession, which he met on its way to the cemetery of Rosetta, says — "The procession we saw pass stopped before certain houses, and sometimes receded a few steps. I was told that the dead stopped thus before the doors of their friends to bid them a last farewell, and before those of their ene- mies to effect a reconciliation before they parted for ever." — Correspond- ence d'Orient, par MM. Michaud et Poujoulat. Slowly, with measured tread, Onward we bear the dead To his long home. Short grows the homeward road, On with your mortal load. O Grave ! we come. Yet, yet — ah ! hasten not Past each familiar spot Where he hath been ; Where late he walked in glee, There from henceforth to be Never more seen. Yet, yet — ah! slowly move — Bear not the form we love Fast from our sight — 336 MRS. SOUTHEY. Let the air breathe on him, And the sun leave on him Last looks of light. Rest ye — set down the bier, One he loved dwelleth here. Let the dead lie A moment that door beside, Wont to fly open wide Ere he came nigh. Hearken ! — he speaketh yet. — "Oh, friend! wilt thou forget (Friend more than brother p How hand in hand we've gone, Heart with heart linked in one — All to each other ? " Oh, friend ! I go from thee, Where the worm feasteth free, Darkly to dwell — Giv'st thou no parting kiss ? Friend ! is it come to this ? Oh, friend, farewell !" Uplift your load again, Take up the mourning strain! Pour the deep wail ! Lo ! the expected one To his place passeth on — Grave ! bid him hail. Yet, yet — ah ! — slowly move ; Bear not the form we love Fast from our sight — Let the air breathe on him, And the sun leave on him Last looks of light. MRS. SOUTHEY. 337 Here dwells his mortal foe ; Lay the departed low, E'en at his gate. — Will the dead speak again ? Uttering proud boasts and vain, Last words of hate ? Lo ! the dead lips unclose — List ! list ! what sounds are those, Plaintive and low ? " Oh thou, mine enemy ! Come forth and look on me Ere hence 1 go. " Curse not thy foeman now — Mark ! on his pallid brow Whose seal is set! Pard'ning I past away — Thou — wage not war with clay — Pardon — forget." Now his last labour 's done ! Now, now the goal is won ! Oh, Grave ! we come. Seal up this precious dust — Land of the good and just, Take the soul home ! TO DEATH. Come not in terrors clad, to claim An unresisting prey — Come like an evening shadow, Death ! So stealthily ! so silently : And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath — Then willingly — oh! willingly With thee I '11 go away. 29 w" 338 MRS. SOUTHEY. What need to clutch with iron grasp What gentlest touch may take ? What need, with aspect dark, to scare So awfully — so terribly, The weary soul would hardly care, Called quietly, called tenderly, From thy dread power to break ? 'Tis not as when thou markest out The young — the blest — the gay; The loved, the loving; they who dream So happily, so hopefully ; Then harsh thy kindest call may seem, And shrinkingly — reluctantly The summoned may obey. But I have drunk enough of life (The cup assigned to me Dashed with a little sweet at best. So scantily — so scantily) — To know full well that all the rest, More bitterly — 'more bitterly Drugged to the last will be : — And I may live to pain some heart That kindly cares for me — To pain, but not to bless. O Death .' Come quietly — come lovingly, And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath ; Then willingly — oh! willingly With thee I'll go away. ARY IIOWITT Delights best to be known as the wife of William Howitt, whom she styles : " My best Counsellor and Teacher ; my literary Associate for a quarter of a century; my Husband and my Friend." She early acquired from an old domestic, a love for ballad poetry, which was strengthened after her marriage, while yet young, by Percy's Reliques and other books of the kind in her husband's library. In 1823, a few years after their union, her husband and herself published jointly two volumes of poems ; and "then," she herself says, " giving vent to my own peculiar fancies, I again took to writing ballads, which were pub- lished in the various periodicals of the day, and the favourable reception they met with gave me the greatest encouragement." In 1834 she attempted a higher flight, aiming at more dramatic effect, in her Seven Temptations ; the charitable purpose of which was, "to induce a more lenient judgment of our fellow erring mortals ; for we see the awful mass of sorrow and of crime in the world, but we know only in part — in a very small degree — the fearful weight of solicitations and im- pulses of passion, and the vast constraint of circumstances, that are brought into play against suffering humanity. . . . Thus, without suffi- cient reflection, we are furnished with data on which to condemn our fellow-creatures, but without sufficient grounds for their palliation and commiseration." The work was more severely criticised than it de- served, although it is far from exhibiting the genuine merit of her smaller pieces. Mrs. Howitt's ballads are worthy of the estimation in which they are held ; they are among the very best, excepting Macau- lay's, of modern times. She has since published several volumes, and promises more, all manifesting "that love of Christ, of the poor, and of little children, which always was and will be a ruling sentiment of her soul." The path she has chosen is that best fitted for the feet of wo- man, and she walks in it with a matronly, kindly grace which wins the loving admiration of all whose esteem is worth the having. Mrs. Howitt's is a remarkable exception to the ordinary lot of gifted women, her mar- ried life having been one of great happiness, her own and her husband's tastes blending in a harmony which has made their home delightful, (330) 340 MARY HO WITT. and their hours full of good fruits ; though we are sorry to trace in some of his later productions an occasional peevishness and sarcasm, the consequence, perhaps, of rapid book-making for the sake of gain. TIBBIE INGLIS, OR THE SCHOLAR'S WOOING. Bonny Tibbie Inglis ! Through sun and stormy weather, She kept upon the broomy hills Her father's flock together. Sixteen summers had she seen, A rose-bud just unsealing, Without sorrow, without fear, In her mountain shieling. She was made for happy thoughts, For playful wit and laughter, Singing on the hills alone, With echo singing after. She had hair as deeply black As the cloud of thunder ; She had brows so beautiful, And dark eyes flashing under. Bright and witty shepherd girl ! Beside a mountain water I found her, whom a king himself Would proudly call his daughter. She was sitting 'mong the crags, Wild and mossed and hoary, Reading in an ancient book Some old martyr story. MARY HOWITT, 34 1 Tears were starting to her eyes, Solemn thought was o'er her; When she saw in that lone place A stranger stand before her. Crimson was her sunny cheek, And her lips seemed moving With the beatings of her heart — How could I help loving! On a crag I sat me down, Upon the mountain hoary, And made her read again to me That old pathetic story. Then she sang me mountain songs, Till the air was ringing With her clear and warbling voice Like a sky-lark singing. And when eve came on at length. Among the blooming heather, We herded on the mountain side Her father's flock together. And near unto her father's house I said " Good night" with sorrow And inly wished that I might say, " We '11 meet again to-morrow !" I watched her tripping to her home ; I saw her meet her mother ; " Among a thousand maids," I cried, "There is not such another!" I wandered to my scholar's home, It lonesome looked and dreary ; I took my books but could not read, Methought that I was weary. 29* 342 MARY HO WITT. I laid me down upon my bed, My heart with sadness laden ; I dreamed but of the mountain wild, And of the mountain maiden. I saw her of her ancient book The pages turning slowly ; I saw her lovely crimson cheek, And dark eye drooping lowly. The dream was, like the day's delight, A life of pain's o'erpayment. I rose, and with unwonted care Put on my sabbath-raiment. To none I told my secret thoughts, Not even to my mother, Nor to the friend who, from my youth, Was dear as is a brother. I got me to the hills again, The little flock was feeding, And there young Tibbie Inglis sate, But not the old book reading. She sate, as if absorbing thought With heavy spells had bound her, As silent as the mossy crags Upon the mountains round her. I thought not of my sabbath dress ; I thought not of my learning; I thought but of the gentle maid, Who, I believed, was mourning. Bonny Tibbie Inglis ! How her beauty brightened, Looking at me, half-abashed, With eyes that flashed and lightened ! MARY HO WITT. There was no sorrow then I saw, There was no thought of sadness. Oh life ! what after-joy hast thou Like love's first certain gladness I I sate me down among the crags, Upon the mountain hoary; But read not then the ancient book, — Love was our pleasant story. And then she sang me songs again, Old songs of love and sorrow, For our sufficient happiness Great charm from woe could borrow. And many hours we talked in joy, Yet too much blessed for laughter : I was a happy man that day, And happy ever after! THE FAIRIES OF THE CALDON LOW. A MIDSUMMER LE&END. " And where have you been, my Mary, And where have you been from me ?" " I 've been to the top of the Caldon Low, The midsummer night to see !" " And what did you see, my Mary, All up on the Caldon Low ?■" " I saw the glad sunshine come down, And I saw the merry winds blow." " And what did you hear, my Mary, All up on the Caldon Hill ?" •' I heard the drops of the water made, And the ears of the green corn fill." 343 344 MARY HOWITT. "Oh! tell me all, my Mary, All, all that ever you know, For you must have seen the fairies, Last night, on the Caldon Low." " Then take me on your knee, mother , And listen, mother of mine. A hundred fairies danced last night, And the harpers they were nine. " And their harp-strings rung so merrily To their dancing feet so small ; But oh ! the words of their talking Were merrier far than all." " And what were the words, my Mary, That then you heard them say ?" " I '11 tell you all, my mother ; But let me have my way. " Some of them played with the water, And rolled it down the hill ; ' And this,' they said, ' shall speedily turn The poor old miller's mill : " ' For there has been no water Ever since the first of May; And a busy man will the miller be At dawning of the day. "'Oh! the miller, how he will laugh When he sees the mill-dam rise ! The jolly old miller, how he will laugh Till the tears fill both his eyes." " Ar.d some they seized the little winds That sounded over the hill ; And each put a horn unto his mouth, And blew both loud and shrill : MARY HO WITT. 345 " ' And there,' they said, ' the merry winds go Away from every horn ; And they shall clear the mildew dank From the blind old widow's corn. " ; Oh ! the poor, blind widow, Though she has been blind so long, She '11 be blithe enough when the mildew ; s gone, And the corn stands tall and strong.' " And some they brought the brown lint-seed, And flung it down from the Low ; ' And this,' they said, ' by the sunrise, In the weaver's croft shall grow. " ' Oh ! the poor, lame weaver, How he will laugh outright When he sees his dwindling flax-field All full of flowers by hight !' " And then outspoke a brownie, With a long beard on his chin ; ' I have spun up all the tow,' said he, ' And I want some more to spin. " ' I 've spun a piece of hempen cloth, And I want to spin another ; A little sheet for Mary's bed, And an apron for her mother.' " With that I could not help but laugh, And I laughed out loud and free ; And then on the top of the Caldon Low There was no one left but me. " And all on the top of the Caldon Low The mists were cold and grey, And nothing I saw but the mossy stones That round about me lay. 346 MARY HO WITT. " But, coming down from the hill-top, I heard afar below, How busy the jolly miller was, And how the wheel did go. " And I peeped into the widow's field, And, sure enough, were seen The yellow ears of the mildewed corn, All standing stout and green. " And down to the weaver's croft I stole, To see if the flax were sprung ; But I met the weaver at his gate, With the good news on his tongue. " Now this is all I heard, mother, And all that I did see ; So, pr'ythee, make my bed, mother, For I 'm tired as 1 can be." THE BOY OF HEAVEN. One summer eve, seven little boys Were playing at the ball, Seven little boys so beautiful, Beside a castle wall. And whilst they played, another came, And stood among them there ; A little boy, with gentle eyes, And thick and curling hair. The clothes he on his body wore Were linen fine and white ; The. girdle that was round his waist Was like the morning light. MARY HOWITT. 347 A little while he looked on them, Looked lovingly, and smiled, When unto him the eldest said, " Whence comest thou, fair child ? " Art thou the son of some great king, And in a hidden place Hast been concealed ; for until now I never saw thy face ? " Dost dwell among the lonely hills, Or in the forest low ; Or dost thou chase the running deer, A hunter with thy bow ? " And tell us what wild, woodland name Have they unto thee given ?" " They called me Willie," said he, " on earth ; They call me so in heaven. " My father with King David dwells, In the land of heaven dwells he ; And my gentle mother, meek and mild, Sits at the Virgin's knee. " Seven years ago to heaven we went, 'T was in the winter chill, When icy cold the winds did blow, And mists were on the hill. " But, when we reached the land of heaven, 'T was like a summer's day, The skies were blue, and fragrant flowers All round about us lay. " The land of heaven is beautiful : There no cold wind doth blow ; And fairer apples than e'er ye saw Within its gardens grow. 348 MARY HOWITT. " 1 've seen the patriarchs face to face ; The wise of every land ; And with the heavenly little ones Have wandered, hand in hand. " Down by the golden streams of life, All through the forests old, And o'er the boundless hills of heaven The sheep of God's own fold." Then up and spoke a little boy, The youngest of the seven : " My mother is dead, so let me go With thee, dear child, to heaven. " My mother is dead, and my father loves His dogs far more than me ; No one would miss me if I went : Oh, let me go with thee ! "No one would miss me if 1 went; Dame Bertha loves me not; And for old crabbed Hildebrand I do not care a jot." " Alas !" the heavenly child replied, " That home thou canst not win, If thou have an ill word on thy tongue, Or in thy heart a sin. "The way is long and wearisome, Through peril great it lies : With any sin upon thy soul From earth thou couldst not rise. "There are waters deep and wild to pass; And who hath a load of sin, Like the heavy rock that will not float, Is tumbled headlong in. MARY HO WITT. 349 " There are red and raging fires to pass ; And like the iron stone Is sin ; red-hot as a burning share, It scorcheth to the bone. " Darest go with me ? Wilt try the path, Now thou its pain dost know ?" The motherless boy turned round and wept, And said, " I dare not go." The boy of heaven to a chamber came Ere rosy day was peeping, And marvelled if his sister 't were Who on the ground lay sleeping. She used to have a bed of down, And silken curtains bright ; But he knew her by her dainty foot, And little hand so white ; He knew her by the long fair hair That on her shoulders lay, Though the pleasant things about the room Were taken all away. And " Oh !" sighed he, " my sister dear, Art thou left all alone ?" Just then she spoke in troubled dreams, And made a gentle moan. " They have ta'en from me my bed of down, And given me straw instead ; They have ta'en from me the wheaten cakes, And given me barley bread. k 'The pearls which my dear mother wore They have ta'en from me away, And the little book with silver clasps Wherefrom I learned to pray. 30 350 MARY HO WITT. "My heart is grown as heavy as lead, And pale and thin my cheek; I sit in corners of the house, And hardly dare to speak. " For they are stern, and love me not ; No gentle hearts are here. I wish I were in heaven above, With my own brother dear!" Then Willie bent down unto the ground, And knelt upon his knee ; He breathed heaven's breath upon her lips, And gave her kisses three. And tenderly he looked on her, And yet he looked not long, Ere he spoke three words into her ear, Three awful words and strong. Then Annie rose from her bed of straw A joyful angel bright, And the chamber, late so dark and drear, Was full of heavenly light. Amazed she looked one moment's space, One moment made a stand ; But she knew it all in a moment more, And away to the heavenly land, Like the morning lark when it rises up, Went they two hand in hand. beatrice. a lover's lay. Gentle, happy Beatrice, Visioned fair before me, How can it a wonder be That many so adore thee ? MARY HO WITT. 351 Old and young, and great and wise, Set their love upon thee ; And, if gold thy heart could win, Gold long since had won thee. Social, cheerful Beatrice, Like a plenteous river Is the current of thy joy, Flowing on for ever. Many call themselves thy friends; Thou art loved of many ; And, where'er the fair are met, Fairest thou of any. Pious, duteous Beatrice, All good angels move thee ; Meek and gentle as a saint, Most for this we love thee. I can see thee going forth Innocent and lowly, Knowing not how good thou art, Like an angel holy : See thee at thy father's side, In thy wondrous beauty, Gladdening that benign old man With cheerful love and duty. I can see his happy smile As he gazes on thee ; 1 can feel the boundless love That he showers upon thee. What a happy house thou mak'st, Singing in thy gladness Snatches of delicious song, Full of old love-sadness ! 352 MARY HO WITT. How I sit and hold my breath When the air is winging, From some far-off pleasant room, Breathings of thy singing! How I listen for thy foot, I know it stepping airy, On the stair or overhead, Like a lightsome fairy ! What a happy house it is Where thou hast thy dwelling! There, love, joy, and kindliness Evermore are welling. Every one within the house Loves to talk about thee ; What an altered place it were, Beatrice, without thee ! I can see thee when I list, In thy beauty shining, Leaning from the casement ledge Where the rose is twining. I can see thee looking down, The little linnet feeding; Or, sitting quietly apart, Some sweet volume reading. Would I were beside thee, The pages turning over, I 'd find some cunning word or two That should my heart discover! I would not heed thy laughter wild, Laugh on, I could withstand thee ; The printed book should tell my tale, And thou shouldst understand me. MARY HO WITT. 353 I know thy arts, my Beatrice, So lovely, so beguiling, The mockery of thy merry wit, The witchery of thy smiling. I know thee for a siren strong, That smites all hearts with blindness, And I might tremble for myself, But for thy loving-kindness. But for the days of by-gone years, When I was as thy brother; Ah! we, my faithful Beatrice, Were meant for one another. I'll straightway up this very day, And ask thee of thy father : And all the blessings life can give In wedded life we '11 gather ! FATHER IS COMING. The clock is on the stroke of six, The father's work is done ; Sweep up the hearth, and mend the fire, And put the kettle on. The wild night-wind is blowing cold, 'T is dreary crossing o'er the wold. He is crossing o'er the wold apace, He is stronger than the storm ; He does not feel the cold, not he, His heart it is so warm. For father's heart is stout and true As ever human bosom knew. 30* x 354 MARY HO WITT. He makes all toil, all hardship light: Would all men were the same ! So ready to be pleased, so kind, So very slow to blame ! Folks need not be unkind, austere. For love hath readier will than fear. Nay, do not close the shutters, child ; For far along the lane The little window looks, and he Can see it shining plain. I 've heard him say he loves to mark The cheerful firelight through the dark. And we'll do all that father likes; His wishes are so few, Would they were more ! that every hour Some wish of his I knew ! I 'm sure it makes a happy day, When I can please him any way. I know he's coming by this sign, That baby 's almost wild ; See how he laughs and crows and stares — ■ Heaven bless the merry child ! He's father's self in face and limb, And father's heart is strong in him. Hark ! hark ! I hear his footsteps now ; He 's through the garden gate. Run, little Bess, and ope the door, And do not let him wait. Shout, baby, shout! and clap thy hands, For father on the threshold stands. r MARY HOWITT. 355 JUDGMENT. Name her not, the guilty one, Virtue turns aside for shame At the mention of her name: Very evilly hath she done. Pity is on her misspent : She was born of guilty kin, Her life's course hath guilty been ; Never unto school she went, And whate'er she learned was sin ; Let her die ! She was nurtured for her fate ; Beautiful she was, and vain ; Like a child of sinful Cain, She was born a reprobate. Lives like hers the world defile ; Plead not for her, let her die, As the child of infamy, Ignorant and poor and vile, Plague-spot in the public eye; Let her die ! THE HEAKT OF THE OUTCAST. I am young, alas ! so young ; And the world has been my foe ; And by hardship, wrong, and woe, Hath my bleeding heart been stung. There was none, O God ! to teach me What was wrong and what was right. I have sinned before thy sight-, Let my cry of anguish reach thee, Piercing through the glooms of night, God of love ! 356 MARY HOWITT. Man is cruel, and doth smother Tender mercy in his breast ; Lays fresh burdens on the oppressed ; Pities not an erring brother, Pities not the stormy throes Of the soul despair hath riven, Nor the brain to madness driven. No one but the sinner knows What it means to be forgiven, God of love! Therefore will I put my trust In thy mercy : and I cleave To that love which can forgive ; To that judgment which is just; Which can pity all my weakness; Which hath seen the life-long strife Of passions fiercer than the knife ; Known the desolating bleakness Of my desert path through life, God of love J I must perish in my youth; And had I been better taught, And did virtue as it ought, And had grey-haired wisdom ruth, I should not have fallen so low. 'Tis the power of circumstance, 'T is the wretch's dire mischance, To be born to sin and woe. Pity thou my ignorance, God of love! MARY HO WITT . VILLAGE CHILDREN. Like the wild birds on the trees, Like the winged autumn breeze, Like whate'er has life and gladness, Unallied to thought and sadness, Are ye, children blithe and boon, Shouting to the harvest-moon : And your joy, like waters free, Bubbles forth perpetually. Naught ye heed that ye must toil, Sons and daughters of the soil ; That within this quiet place Ye must run your simple race, Never know the stir and strife Of a loftier, nobler life ; That your bones, where ye have played, By your fathers' shall be laid. Naught ye care for learning vain, Which but dulleth pulse and brain ; Ye are neither deep nor wise ; Ye shall ne'er philosophize. Lowly ones, that matters not, Doth not gloom your humble lot, Doth not make one ray depart From the sunshine of your heart. Happy children ! here ye run Gaily in the summer's sun ; 'Neath this village tree ye play ; Down these shadowy lanes ye stray, Gathering flowers, or singing wild To some younger laughing child. Tis a kindly life ye lead; Such as poet hath decreed 357 358 MARY HO WITT. To that earlier, happy time, Ere the earth was gloomed by crime. Simple ones, and full of gladness, Ye shall school my spirit's sadness. Never-ending joy ye find In your own contented mind ; Sending not your spirits out Searching wearily about For ideal things, that lie Nowhere underneath the sky. I, like you, will find delight On the left hand and the right, Nor o'erlook the treasure sweet Which is lying at my feet. Children, though untaught ye be, Thus ye shall be guides to me. THE FISHING BOAT. GOING OUT. Briskly blows the evening gale, Fresh and free it blows ; Blessings on the fishing-boat, How merrily she goes ! Christ he loved the fishermen ; Walking by the sea, How he blessed the fishing-boats Down in Galilee ! Dark the night, and wild the wave, Christ the boat is keeping ; Trust in him, and have no fear, Though he seemeth sleeping. MARY HOWITT. COMING IN. Briskly blows the morning breeze, Fresh and strong it blows ; Blessings on the fishing-boat, How steadily she goes! Christ he loved the fishermen ; And he blessed the net Which the hopeless fishers threw In Geneserat. He has blessed our going out, Blessed too our returning; Given us laden nets at night, And fair wind in the morning. REJOICING IN HEAVEN. Young spirit, freed from bondage, Rejoice! Thy work is done; The weary world is 'neath thy feet ; Thou, brighter than the sun. Arise, put on the garments Which the redeemed win. Now, sorrow hath no part in thee, Thou, sanctified from sin. Awake, and breathe the living air Of our celestial clime! Awake to love which knows no change, Thou, who hast done with time ! Awake ! Lift up thy joyful eyes, See, all heaven's host appears; And be thou glad exceedingly, Thou, who hast done with tears. 359 360 FRANCES BROWN. Awake ! descend ! Thou art not now With those of mortal birth ; The living God hath touched thy lips, Thou who hast done with earth. FRANCES BROWN, ("THE BLIND POETESS OF ULSTER.") She was born in 1816, at Stranorlar, in the county of Donegal, her father being the postmaster of that village. She had the misfortune to lose her eyesight when eighteen months old, and has been dependent upon the kindness of others for all she lias learned from books. The ac- count she gives of her pains in acquiring knowledge is very pleasing, her intellectual taste being first awakened by the preaching of the village pastor, then nourished by hearing the books of children read, and afterwards feasted successively upon Walter Scott, ancient Histories, Burns, Pope's Iliad, Milton, Byron, dz-c. A letter, addressed to the Editor of the London Athenaeum, enclosing a few of her poems, was favourably answered, and she became a frequent contributor to that magazine, to the Dublin University, as well as to Hood's, and Lady Blessington's Keepsake. In 1844 a collection of her pieces, The Star of Alteghei and other Poems, appeared, with a preface (probably by her gifted publisher, Mr. Edward Moxon), which justly says: "The bard gathers dignity from the darkness amid which she sings, as the dark- ness itself is lightened by the song." THE SPANISH CONQUESTS IN AMERICA. (FROM THE VISION OF SCHWARTZ.) Whence came those glorious shadows? — Say, Ye far and nameless tombs ! Ye silent cities, lost to day Amid the forest glooms ! FRANCES B ROWN. Is there no echo in the glades, Whose massive foliage never fades, — No voice among the pathless shades, To tell of glory gone ? Gone from faint memory's fading dreams, From shepherd's tales and poet's themes; And yet the bright, eternal streams Unwasted still roll on, — Majestic as they rolled, before A sail had sought, or found, the shore. But by those mighty rivers, then, What peaceful nations met, Among the race of mortal men Unnamed, unnumbered yet! And cities rose and temples shone, And power and splendour graced the throne, And autumn's riches, freely strown, Repaid the peasant's pains ; For homes of love and shrines of prayer And fields of storied fame were there, And smiling landscapes freshly fair — ■ The haunts of happy swains, — And many a wide and trackless wild, Where roved the farmer's tameless child. ***** Shades of Columbia's perished host ! How shall a stranger tell The deeds that glorified your coast, Before its warriors fell ? Where sleeps thy mountain muse, Peru ? And Chili's matchless hills of dew, Had they no harp, to freedom true, No bard of native fire, To sing his country's ancient fame, 31 361 362 FRANCES BROWN. And keep the brightness of her name Unfading as the worshipped flame? — ■ The wealth of such a lyre Outvalues all the blood-bought ore That e'er Iberia's galleons bore. Iberia ! on thine ancient crown The blood of nations lies, With power to weigh thy glory down,— With voice to pierce the skies ! For written with an iron pen, Upon the memories of men, The deeds that marked thy conquest, then, For evermore remain : — And still the saddest of the tale Is Afric's wild and weary wail, — Though prelates spread the slaver's sail,* And forged the negro's chain : The curse of trampled liberty For ever clings to thine and thee ! # # # # # Bright were the spears and brave the hearts That held those early fields, — And vain, against their poisoned darts, Were Europe's knightly shields. But say, is that the lightning's flash, That smites the warrior's, as they dash Upon their foes? — The mountain ash Ne'er shed its shrivelled leaves So fast, before the winter's breath, As fall their crowds, by hill and heath, Where fast the ancient reaper, Death, Mows down the mortal sheaves ! * A bishop is said to have suggested to the emperor, Charles the Fifth, the necessity of introducing Negro slaves into his American colonies. FRANCES BROWN. 363 For still, where nations win or yield, Death is the victor of the field ! They fall as fell the perished brave For whom no wreaths have sprung, Who sank in silence to the grave Unstoried and unsung. In vain Peru renews her darts, — In vain La Plata plies her arts, — ■ And Chili* sends her dauntless hearts, That would not bow, but bleed. Ah ! wherefore fails the righteous cause ? Oh ! must the sword that freedom draws, When arming for her holiest laws, Be found a broken reed ? Woe for the nations ! — it was so With Montezuma's Mexico ! THE MAID OF THE RHONE. " 'T was in that lovely land that lies Where Alpine shadows fall On scenes that, to the pilgrim's eyes, Might Eden's bloom recall, — As when, undimmed by curse or crime, It rose amid the dawn of time, — ■ That early spring, whose blossoms grew While yet the heavens and earth were new : There stood — beside the rapid Rhone, That, now from Leman free, By wood and city wall swept on, To meet the classic sea — An ancient and a stately hall, With dungeon-keep and moated wall, •The natives of Chili long resisted the Spaniards; and, it is said, could never be subdued. 364 FRANCES BROWN. And battlements whose bannered pride Had many a hostile host defied. "And she, the lady of the tower, Though last of all her line, Was mightiest in the matchless power Of beauty, — at whose shrine The flower of chivalry adored, And proved their vows by song and sword. But knightly vow and minstrel strain Beneath her lattice flowed in vain ; For, in the maiden's bower, there hung A warrior's portrait — pale, But wondrous beautiful and young, And clad in burnished mail : Oh ! many an eye had marked it well, But none that warrior's tale could tell, — Save that he bore the Red Cross shield, And fought in some far Syrian field. " But there the maiden's earliest glance And latest gaze would turn, From thrilling harp and gleaming lance, With love that seemed to spurn All other vows, and serve alone That nameless idol of its own. For oft such glorious shadows rise, And early hide from youthful eyes The substance of this world, and claim The heart's first-fruits, that taste Of Paradise, — though nought but fame Hath, on the altar, traced The name no wave can wash away ! — As old remembered legends say, FRANCES BROWN. 365 The eastern maiden loved, so long, The youth she only knew in song! " So loved the lady of the tower ! And summers glided on, Till, one by one, from hall and bower, Her kindred maids were gone; Some had put on the bridal wreath, — Some wore the chaplet twined for death : But still no mortal charms could wean Her fancy from that pictured mien. At length, there came a noble knight, Though past his manhood's prime; His sword had been in many a fight, His steps in many a clime : — But ah! what thoughts that wooer's name Awakened; — for it was the same That the old painter's magic art Had graven on the maiden's heart! "The idol of her youth was now Before her! but she gazed Upon the veteran's furrowed brow, — And then, in wonder, raised Her eyes to that bright pictured face, Whose changeless beauty wore no trace Of wasting time or withering war, Like his, in furrow or in scar. Oh ! many a loved and lovely face, Had grown less fond and fair, Since first that picture met her gaze, But, still, no change was there ! That age could dim or sorrow bow The sunny cheek or stately brow — 31* 366 FRANCES BROWN. She had not thought of things like these In all her lonely reveries ! "Like him who saw, through Alpine woods, The glacier's gem-like glow, And climbed the rocks and crossed the floods, To find it only snow, — So felt the maiden — as she said: 'My star is set — my rainbow fled! Why hast thou come at last, — to break My pleasant dream ? — how sad to wake ! What thoughts of thee, o'er heart and mind, Have sped their visioned gleam : — I meet thee, now — but not to find The shadow of my dream ! This heart hath only bowed before The glory that the canvass wore ; That spell hath past — my soul is free — And turns no more to love — or thee ! " ' Go ! find some fairer, happier bride, Who hath not loved in vain ; — The light that in thy presence died, May never shine again ! The passion that survived, in truth, The roses and the smiles of youth, Hath perished, like the pilgrim knight, Who died, with Salem in his sight !' "There is a cross on Sidon's shore, That marks a Templar's rest; — And cloister-arches darken o'er A fairer gentler guest. So sleep the loving hearts, whom fate Forbade to meet till all too late ; And the same storied lands and waves That parted them, divide their graves." FRANCES BROWN. "LET US RETURN." " Let us return !" said the broken heart Of the mountain hermit's tale, — * When he saw the morning mists depart From the summits grey and pale : — For he knew that the fan-palm cast the shade Of its ever-glorious green Where the love of his blasted youth was laid, And the light of her steps had been. Ah ! thus, for ever, the heart looks back To its young hope's funeral urn : — To the tender green of that early track, To its light, let us return! The lines of our life may be smooth and strong, — And our pleasant path may lie Where the stream of affection flows along, In the light of a summer sky : — But woe for the lights that early wane, And the shades that early fall, And the prayer that speaks of the secret pain, Though its voice be still and small! To the sweeter flowers, to the brighter streams, To the household hearths that burn Still bright in our holy land of dreams, To their love let us return! » T is well we have learned the truths of time, — But they came with the winter's snow, For we saw them not through the flowery prime Of our summers long ago : Yet the spring is green and the summer bright As they were in the years of yore, But on our souls the love and light Of their gladness come no more ! 367 *Paul and Virginia. 368 FRANCES BROWN. Back — back to the wisdom of the years That had yet no loss to mourn, — To their faith, that found no place for tears, To their joy, let us return ! We have paused, perchance, by the quiet grave Of our young who early slept, — And, since they left us, many a wave O'er our weary bark hath swept; — But far in the morning light enshrined, They gladden our backward gaze, Or wake like the breath of the summer's wind, The soul of our better days. Back — back ! to the living wave, we drew, With them, from a purer urn, — To the path of the promise lost to view, And its peace — let us return ! THE PICTURE OP THE DEAD. A chief from his distant forest came, To the pale one's lonely tent; And he brought such gifts as a prince might claim, By an Indian monarch sent : — And " Bright may the sun on thy dwelling shine !" Said the warrior of the wild, — " Stranger, the gifts I bear are thine, Who hast given me back my child ! " My child, who passed to the spirit-land, In the sunrise of her years : — I have looked for her in our woodland band, Till mine eyes grew dim with tears : But her shadow bright, by thy pencil traced, Still sweet in my dwelling smiled, FRANCES BROWN. And the hearth she left is not yet a waste, — Thou hast given me hack my child! " I laid her low, in the place of graves, Where the ever-silent slept ; And summer's grass, in its greenness, waves Where an Indian warrior wept : — For bright was our star, that early set, Till we lost its lustre mild ; But she lives in her changeless beauty yet, — Thou hast given me hack my child! " And say ! when our young, who loved her well, Like the pines grow old and hoar, Will her youth still last, as theirs that dwell Where the winter comes no more ? When the early loved of her heart is low, Will she smile as she ever smiled ? Oh! safe from the withering hand of woe, Hast thou given me back my child! « 'T is well with those of thine eastern land ; Though their loved ones may depart, The magic power of the painter's hand Restores them to the heart. Oh ! long may the light of their presence stay, Whose love thy griefs beguiled! And blessings brighten thy homeward way, — Who hast given me back my child!" STREAMS. Ye early minstrels of the earth, — Whose mighty voices woke The echoes of its infant woods, Ere yet the tempest spoke! Y 369 370 FRANCES BROWN. How is it, that ye waken still The young heart's happy dreams, And shed your light on darkened days, O bright and. blessed streams! Woe for the world ! — she hath grown old And grey, in toil and tears ; — But ye have kept the harmonies Of her unfallen years : For ever, in our weary path, Your ceaseless music seems The spirit of her perished youth, — Ye glad and glorious streams ! Your murmurs bring the pleasant breath Of many a sylvan scene, — They tell of sweet and sunny vales, And woodlands wildly green. Ye cheer the lonely heart of age, — Ye fill the exile's dreams With hope and home and memory, — Ye unforgotten streams ! Too soon the blessed springs of love To bitter fountains turn, And deserts drink the stream that flows From hope's exhaustless urn ; And faint, upon the waves of life, May fall the summer beams, — But they linger long and bright with you, Ye sweet unchanging streams ! The bards — the ancient bards — who sang When thought and song were new, O, mighty waters ! did they learn Their minstrelsy from you ? FRANCES BROWN. 371 For still, methinks, your voices blend With all their glorious themes, That flow for ever, fresh and free As the eternal streams ! Well might the sainted seer, of old, Who trod the tearless shore, Like many waters deem the voice The angel hosts adore ! For still, where deep the rivers roll, Or far the torrent gleams, Our spirits hear the voice of God, Amid the rush of streams ! DREAMS OF THE DEAD. The peasant dreams of lowly love, — The prince of courtly bowers, — And exiles, through the midnight, rove Among their native flowers : — But flowers depart, and, sere and chill, The autumn leaves are shed, And roses come again — yet still, My dreams are of the dead ! The voices in my slumbering ear Have woke the world, of old, — The forms that in my dreams appear Have mingled with the mould ; Yet still they rise around my rest, In all their peerless prime, — The names by new-born nations blest - The stars of elder time ! They come from old and sacred piles, Where glory's ashes sleep, — 372 FRANCES BROWN. From far and long-deserted aisles, — From desert or from deep, — From lands of ever-verdant bowers, Unstained by mortal tread ; — Why haunt ye thus my midnight hours, Ye far and famous dead ? I have not walked with you, on earth, — My path is lone and low, — A vale where laurels have not birth, Nor classic waters flow : But on the sunrise of my soul Your mighty shades were cast, As cloud-waves o'er the morning roll, — Bright children of the past! And oft, with midnight, I have met The early wise and brave, — Oh, ever great and glorious, yet, As if there were no grave ! As if, upon their path of dust, Had been no trace of tears, No blighted faith, no broken trust, Nor waste of weary years ! But ah ! my loved of early days, — How brightly still they bring Upon my spirit's backward gaze The glory of its spring ! The hopes that shared their timeless doom Return, as freshly green As though the portals of the tomb Had never closed between ! Oh ! man may climb the mountain snows, Or search the ocean wave, — But who will choose to walk with those Whose dwelling is the grave? — FRANCES BROWN. 373 Yet, when upon that, titleless shore His sweetest flowers are shed, The lonely dreamer shrinks no more From visions of the dead ! THE STARS OF NIGHT. Whence are your glorious goings forth, — Ye children of the sky, In whose bright silence seems the power Of all eternity ? For time hath let his shadow fall O'er many an ancient light; But ye walk above, in brightness still — 0, glorious stars of night! The vestal lamp in Grecian fane Hath faded long ago ; — On Persian hills the worshipped flame Hath lost its ancient glow ; — And long the heaven-sent fire is gone, With Salem's temple bright ; — But ye watch o'er wandering Israel, yet, O, changeless stars of night! Long have ye looked upon the earth, O'er vale and mountain-brow; Ye saw the ancient cities rise, Ye gild their ruins, now : Ye beam upon the cottage home — The conqueror's path of might; And shed your light alike on all, O, priceless stars of night ! And where are they, who learned from you The fates of coming time,— 32 374 FRANCES BROWN. Ere yet the pyramids arose Amid their desert clime ? Yet still in wilds and deserts far, Ye bless the watcher's sight, — And shine where bark hath never been, O, lonely stars of night ! Much have ye seen of human tears — Of human hope and love, — And fearful deeds of darkness, too, — Ye witnesses above ! Say, will that blackening record live For ever in your sight, Watching for judgment on the earth, — O, sleepless stars of night ! How glorious was your song, that rose With the first morning's dawn ! And still, amid our -summer sky, Its echo lingers on : — Though ye have shone on many a grave, Since Eden's early blight, Ye tell of hope and glory, still — O, deathless stars of night ! STEPHENS, THE TRAVELLER, AMONG THE RUINS OF COPAN. 'Twas in the western wilderness Of everlasting trees, — Where rose no voice and waved no tress Upon the lonely breeze, — Where never light of sun or star Might shine through bower or glade ; — Why came the stranger, then, so far, To pierce its depth of shade ? FRANCES BROWN. Did not his childhood's eye the land Of ancient woods behold, In summer's greenness darkly grand, Or autumn's gorgeous gold ? Had he not heard the tempest sweep Through forests vast and hoar, Like some yet undiscovered deep Lone sounding on its shore ? Yes! — but from southern wilds there came A voice of olden time, — An echo of departed fame Dwelt in that golden clime: And there, the dauntless traveller found His toil repaid at last, — Where wreaths of countless summers crowned A city of the past! The birds had sung its solitude, While silent ages swept, — And palm-trees, where its altars stood, Their voiceless vigil kept : — And flowers grew fair, amid the homes Of a departed race, — Whose skill had raised the ruined domes Of that green desert place. Was this, when Greece and time were young, The land of Plato's dreams, — Whose glory round his visions hung, By far and classic streams ? Or had its fading splendour shone Like sunset o'er the seas, And lit, through trackless waves, alone, The fearless Genoese ? 375 376 LADY EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY. How have they perished from the earth ! — By lyre and pen forgot, Alike their destiny and birth, They were — and they are not ! Time swept into oblivion's womb Their glory and their power, — And ancient forests spread their gloom O'er temple, tomb and tower. For nature's hand is mighty, still ; The thrones of earth decay, — The sword of war, the pen of skill And wisdom, pass away, — But wide she spreads her leafy pall, Or bids the harvest wave, — And the glory, and the conquest, all Are thine, devouring grave ! LADY EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY, Daughter of the Duke of Rutland, and wife of the Hon. Stuart Wortley, lays claim to a share of the genius which has distinguished her blood and her name. Her poems fill a dozen volumes, having suc- ceeded each other very rapidly : The Knight and the Enchantress, 1832 : London at Night and other Poems, 1834 ; The Village Church Yard, 1835 ; The Visionary, 1837 ; Lays of Leisure, 1838, &c, with versified notices of her travels ; and she has written a novel or two besides. The reviewers have shown her productions little mercy, and it must be owned, that not a few of them are absurd enough to justify the severity. She is utterly averse to any discipline of her fancy or style, pouring out tropes and metaphors, old, new, just and confused, without choice or stint, as the readiest means of filling out her lavish lines, which she seems bent upon multiplying without end. Yet some LADY EMMELINE STUART WOltTLEY. 377 of her smaller poems evince a glowing imagination, a lively sense of the beautiful, and an ear for rhythm, which render them worthy of a higher estimate than they have generally received. NIGHT AND MORNING. 1 wandered through the wood, And I wandered by the wave ; I bent me o'er the flood, Where angry waters rave. The night was gathering dark, And the air was gathering damp ; There gleamed no glow-worm's spark, No fire-fly's fluttering lamp. Fondly I sought to dream, But mine eyelids would not close — Grated the night-owl's scream, Roared the pine's crashing brows. No nightingale was singing, Those solemn glooms to cheer ; But the hollow winds were ringing Their death-dirge in mine ear. No lovely star was shining Through those midnight heavens of dread •, No bowery foliage twining Rich umbrage o'er my head. No sweet night-blowing flowers With their mist of incense-steam, No golden-fruited bowers Stained by the noontide beam. 32* 378 LADY EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY No verdure fresh and fair — Carpet for fairies' feet ; Spring's glories reigned not there, Nor summer's breathings sweet. Solemn the night, and dreary, — A weight on eye and ear ; The very heart felt weary, And o'ertaken by dim fear. Haunted by things long lost, Pale, shadowy memories, The undistinguishable host Of aery phantasies. I strove to see the land — I strove to see the sky; But Darkness waved his wand, Night was — Immensity ! But Slumber then descended, Soft visions soothed my sight, And when that brief sleep ended, The universe was — Light ! O ! my bounding heart was borne On the wings of strong delight, When thy approach, sweet morn ! Stilled the resounding night. Thus shines the splendid morrow, When the heavy night is past, And thus from holy sorrow Spring heaven's own smiles at last! Lovelier even light may be From darkness burning forth — O, Suffering ! 't is from thee We learn Hope's costliest worth ! LADY EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY. 379 DREAMS. Dreams, loveliest mutabilities of ever-changeful earth! Beauteous and precious blossoming of Time's cold desert dearth, Incarnadining life's grey mists with sun-hues of the south, And brightening life's horizon-rim with the orient fires of youth. Like the fair rainbow, linking earth to the blue exulting sky, And showering o'er the space around a flood of radiancy ! O, wondrous are ye, and sublime in your phases and your powers, Wresting from care and feverish woe some few short splendid hours ! From the monarch's brow ye lift the crown ! the captive's chains unbind ! Youth unto frozen age ye are, and light unto the blind — A refuge and a shelter to earth's wanderer, weary-hearted, And all to the bereaved, since ye restore the long-departed ! To childhood's ken, O ! what a world of mystery and of glory ! Surpassing all even childhood meets in the gorgeous realms of story ! All dazzling dyes, all wildering light, all wonder, and all change ! Where the thoughts, like birds of paradise, through an endless sunshine range ! # # * # # A picture-land, a music-land, sleep's wide realm must be there, Where no echo-voice of other times doth haunt the silvery air — No faded tracery of the past doth mantle it with gloom — ■ No canopying clouds of night, no shadows of the tomb ! 3S0 LADY EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY. Dreams of the poet's burning mind ! ! what must ye not be ? Bright-pinioned travellers, that explore the unveiled immen- sity ; That bring from many an untraeked coast, and many an un- touched mine, The dazzling meed of riches he receives but to resign ! Yet, if his mind one lightning-glimpse of all ye brought retain, It shall bring glory without end to his mighty sweeping strain ! For ye shall crown his conquering thought with all grand and starry themes, Though alone that lightning-glimpse bequeathed, shall mark your track, winged dreams ! Yours are the realms of life and death — the realms of time and space ! And the fiery-tressed comet toils behind ye in the race ; The Past heaves, like a billowy sea, when ye hover o'er its gloom — And, fearful in their beauty, rise the dwellers of the tomb ! And to the painter's fervid glance what marvels ye disclose — Your very atmosphere burns deep with the crimsonings of the rose ! Sunshine through moonlight quivering gleams ! beam upon beam embossed ! In labyrinthine wreathed wanderings — silvery streams with golden crossed! Perchance ye spread unrecked-of worlds before his raptured vision — Worlds with o'erpowering beauty crowned! aerial — crystal- line — Elysian ! Where the spirit of all loveliness embodied seems to dwell, As the fire within the umbrageous cloud, or the pearl in the orient shell ! LADY EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY. 381 Or, perchance, the glorious scenes of old for him ye may revive ! And bid the vanished Beautiful — the vanquished Mighty live — Redeem fallen cities from the dust, that hath their majesty defiled, And give them pomp they boasted not, ere time their strength despoiled. Like gorgeous jewel-pyramids — like genii-structures, famed of old, They arise with spires and column-shafts of burnished sculp- tured gold ! With vast domes that might o'ercanopy all the unpavilioned seas ! Yet ever varying, cloud-like, to his fancy's varying breeze ! * # # # # O'er that spirit that hath thirsted for the fountain-draughts of life ! And battled with meek earnestness through the dark and lengthened strife ; O'er whose thousand thousand thoughts and hopes, one faith hath, crown-like, hovered — Ye have breathed ! and to its passionate gaze worlds after worlds discovered. O'er that spirit — sovereign dreams ! ye shed a mastering gift of power, To pierce the cloud-o'ershadowings of earth's strange mys- terious hour — To rend through dimly-visioned worlds a bright victorious way — To soar in the height of heights, the excess of heaven's deep day! 382 LADY EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY. EVENING. 'T was evening, and a lovely and a lulling evening 't was — Soft, slumbrous murmurs lightly ran through the wavy sha- dowy grass — Bright birds were homewards flitting, scattering song-notes faint and few, And heavy grew the soft warm air, all redolent of dew — Sweet dew ! that mantled and arrayed all things in quivering splendour ! Sweet dew ! that made the violet leaves their richest scents surrender ! The lengthening shadows slanted from the mountain's flowery side — The half-veiled landscape with a depth of dreamy hues was dyed ! Ah ! 't was such season and such scene as silently compels Long-unremembered feelings from their sealed and shrouded cells — Inducing a luxuriant calm — a solemn mood and high, While melancholy's thousand chords are attuned to harmony ! A mood from which no wanderer-thought, in feathery bondage held, Would wish to escape, though prisoned there, and softened down, and quelled ! O, 'tis a tender bondage this, as light — as soft as sleep! Sleep — that, like summer's purple heaven, doth all in beauty steep — Sleep ! O, that most familiar — that most 'wildering miracle, When all the music of the soul lies locked within its shell ! Yet e'en more wondrously divine, and more rich and glorious seems LADY EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY. 383 A waking world of phantasies and ever changeful dreams — A waking world of visions, spread before the uncurtained eyes ! As in such sweet aerial mood unsought — undreamed of — rise ! That mood which, like the dove, doth all unwearied evermore Brood on itself! — or like the wave o'er its unseen pearly store : Words never may its mysteries high — its sweet discrepancies unfold — O, in this world are feelings old, unlanguaged and untold ! Though they by thousands have been felt, by tens of thou- sands known — Silence still overpowers them from her wide and viewless throne .' Thus this blest mood — of sadness rich, and of influence pure and fine — (How all wild and dark emotions in its hallowed sphere decline !) Language may never breathe away the mists that wrapt it round ! 'Twould shrink from the aery thrall of words — the silvery touch of sound ! Calmer the spirit seems to lie than some many- imaged lake, When no breeze may crisp its crystal-depths, its azure mirror break ! O, 't is a reconciling dream —a mediatorial spell ! The trouble of our worldly griefs and our worldly joys to quell ! RS. NORTON. This most delightful writer, whose lines alternate with feminine ten- derness and masculine vigour, inherited genius and has been educated by suffering. Sarah Elizabeth Norton is the grand-daughter of Ri- chard Brinsley Sheridan. Left fatherless when an infant, she and her sisters were educated by an accomplished and devoted mother. How much she was indebted to that mother's care, her subsequent career has shown. Her sister (subsequently married to the Hon. Capt. Price Blackwood, who died soon after his succession to the title of Lord Dufferin and Clanboy), generously rivalled her in precocity of talent and ease of composition, each having filled, before the age of twelve, a manuscript volume with poems of unusual merit. The affecting ballad of The Irish Emigrant' s Lament, rendered yet more affecting to us by Mr. Dempster's music and singing, was a fruit of Lady DufTerin's maturer powers, and compares with any lyric of humble life in the language for Saxon simplicity and natural truth. The more it is stu- died, the more does the talent of its conception and detail appear ; nor can it be sufficiently regretted that so exquisite a pen has been so idle. The early vigour of our authoress was not the hotbed prematurity that quickly disappoints the hopes it excites. She has continued to write better and better to the present hour ; though, as Mr. Griswold with his usual judgment says, she need not now be ashamed of verses which she wrote at twelve. At seventeen, her Sorrows of Rosalie showed he- ripening genius. Bereaved by death of one to whom her heart was given, she became in an unpropitious hour the wife of the Hon. George Chappel Norton, who has proved himself utterly unworthy of having committed to him the child of beauty, genius and generous feeling, whom he lias persecuted witli the basest accusations and untiring ma- lignity. Mrs. Norton passed through a judicial investigation of her character in such a triumphant manner as to awaken, on both sides of the Atlantic, the utmost indignation against her slanderers. The traces of her sufferings are burned deeply on her pages. She scorns to hide the workings of her embittered memory and outraged heart; yet her tone though unconstrained is lofty, yielding not to man, but to the (384) MRS. NORTON. 385 force of nature. What she has endured has taught her not misanthropy, but a stronger sympathy with the weak and wronged, a nobler eloquence in appeals for freedom, truth and general justice. She has retired from the world but not abandoned it, and the editor has before him a letter from a distinguished American lady now in England, speaking in affec- tionate and admiring terms of the choice, though purposely circum- scribed society, in which her earnest nature finds a solace, heightened by a continued exercise of her powers to charm the many who wel- come every new effusion from her pen. Mrs. Norton is deficient in severity of taste. Like most female writers, though in a far less degree than some, she writes too eagerly, and not a few even of her best pieces are marred by lines or words hastily thrown in to serve the measure. Strains of such passionate force should be carefully submitted to the judgment of her cooler hours, and rhetorical rule suffered to trim the luxuriance which it would not have created. That poetry, even of the heart, is most perfect, which is best governed ; and carelessness of rule inevitably requires occasional artifice to help us out of difficulties into which haste has led us. Mrs. Norton, with her characteristic ingenuousness, confesses her obnox- iousness to criticism; and in the preface to her last and noble poem on the Young Prince of Wales, The Child of the Islands, says, that she has "endeavoured to profit by the suggestions made on former occa- sions I can truly copy the plan of quaint John Bunyan : < It came from mine own heart — so to my head, And thence into my fingers trickled ; Then to my pen — .' " Notwithstanding, we should be sorry to see her fire smothered by too much care, an evil of which, if we may judge from the Child of the Islands, there is no great danger. TWILIGHT. (FROM THE D R E A v ) Oh! Twilight! Spirit that dost render birth To dim enchantments ; melting Heaven with Earth, Leaving on craggy hills and running streams A softness like the atmosphere of dreams ; 33 z 386 MRS. NORTON. Thy hour to all is welcome ! Faint and sweet Thy light falls round the peasant's homeward feet, Who, slow returning from his task of toil, Sees the low sunset gild the cultured soil, And, tho' such radiance round him brightly glows, Marks the small spark his cottage window throws. Still as his heart forestalls his weary pace, Fondly he dreams of each familiar face, Recalls the treasures of his narrow life, His rosy children, and his sunburnt wife, To whom his coming is the chief event Of simple days in cheerful labour spent. The rich man's chariot hath gone whirling past And those poor cottagers have only cast One careless glance on all that show of pride Then to their tasks turned quietly aside ; But him they wait for, him they welcome home. Fond sentinels look forth to see him come ; The fagot sent for when the fire grew dim, The frugal meal prepared, are all for him ; For him the watching of that sturdy boy, For him those smiles of tenderness and joy, For him, — ■ who plods his sauntering way along Whistling: the fragment of some village songf ! Dear art thou to the lover, thou sweet light, Fair fleeting sister of the mournful night ! As in impatient hope he stands apart, Companioned only by his beating heart, And with an eager fancy oft beholds The vision of a white robe's fluttering folds Flit through the grove and gain the open mead, True to the hour by loving hearts agreed ! At length she comes. The evening's holy grace Mellows the glory of her radiant face ; MRS. NORTON. The curtain of that daylight faint and pale Hangs round her like the shrouding of a veil 5 As, turning with a bashful timid thought, From the dear welcome she herself hath sought, Her shadowy profile drawn against the sky Cheats, while it charms, his fond adoring eye. Oh ! dear to him, to all, since first the flowers Of happy Eden's consecrated bowers Heard the low breeze along the branches play, And God's voice bless the cool hour of the day. For though that glorious Paradise be lost, Though earth by blighting storms be roughly crossed, Though the long curse demands the tax of sin, And the day's sorrows with the day begin, That hour, once sacred to God's presence, still Keeps itself calmer from the touch of ill, The holiest hour of Earth. Then toil doth cease — Then from the yoke the oxen find release — Then man rests pausing from his many cares, And the world teems with children's sunset prayers ! Then innocent things seek out their natural rest, The babe sinks slumbering on its mother's breast ; The birds beneath their leafy covering creep, Yea, even the flowers fold up their buds in sleep ; And angels, floating by, on radiant wings, Hear the low sound the breeze of evening brings, Catch the sweet incense as it floats along, The infant's prayer, the mother's cradle-song, And bear the holy gifts to worlds afar, As things too sacred for this fallen star. At such an hour, on such a summer night, Silent and calm in its transparent light, A widowed parent watched her slumbering child On whose young face the sixteenth summer smiled. 387 388 MRS. NORTON. Fair was the face she watched ! Nor less, because Beauty's perfection seemed to make a pause, And wait, on that smooth brow, some further touch, Some spell from time, — the great magician, — such As calls the closed bud out of hidden gloom, And bids it wake to glory, light, and bloom. Girlish as yet, but with the gentle grace Of a young fawn in its low resting-place, Her folded limbs were lying : from her hand A group of wild flowers — Nature's brightest band, Of all that laugh along the summer fields, Of all the sunny hedge-row freely yields, Of all that in the wild-wood darkly hide, Or on the thyme-bank wave in breezy pride, — Showed that the weariness which closed in sleep So tranquil, child-like, innocent and deep, Nor festal gaiety, nor toilsome hours, Had brought; but, like a flower among the flowers, She had been wandering 'neath a summer sky. Youth on her lip and gladness in her eye, Twisting the wild rose from its native thorn, And the blue scabious from the sunny corn ; Smiling and singing like a spirit fair That walked the world, but had no dwelling there. And still (as though their faintly scented breath Preserved a meek fidelity in death) Each late imprisoned blossom fondly lingers Within the touch of her unconscious fingers, Though, languidly unclasped, that hand no more Guards its possession of its rifled store. So wearily she lay; so sweetly slept; So by her side fond watch the mother kept ; And, as above her gentle child she bent, So like they seemed in form and lineament, MRS. NO RT ON 389 You might have deemed her face its shadow gave To the clear mirror of a fountain's wave ; Only in this they differed ; that, while one Was warm and radiant as the summer sun, The other's smile had more a moonlight play, For many tears had wept its glow away ; Yet was she fair; of loveliness so true, That time, which faded, never could subdue ; And though the sleeper, like a half-blown rose, Showed bright as angels in her soft repose, Though bluer veins ran through each snowy lid, Curtaining sweet eyes, by long dark lashes hid — Eyes that as yet had never learnt to weep, But woke up smiling, like a child's, from sleep ; — Though fainter lines were pencilled on the brow, Which cast soft shadows on the orbs below ; Though deeper colour flushed her youthful cheek, In its smooth curve more joyous and less meek, And fuller seemed the small and crimson mouth, With teeth like those that glitter in the south — She had but youth's superior brightness, such As the skilled painter gives with flattering touch When he would picture every lingering grace Which once shone brighter in some copied face ; And it was compliment, whene'er she smiled, To say, " Thou 'rt like thy mother, my fair child !" A MOTHER. Ah ! blessed are they for whom 'mid all their pains That faithful and unaltered love remains ; Who, Life wrecked round them, — hunted from their rest,- And, by all else forsaken or distressed, — Claim, in one heart, their sanctuary and shrine — As I, my Mother, claimed my place in thine ! 33* 390 MRS. NORTON. Oft, since that hour, in sadness I retrace My childhood's vision of thy calm sweet face ; Oft see thy form, its mournful beauty shrouded In thy black weeds, and coif of widow's woe ; Thy dark expressive eyes all dim and clouded By that deep wretchedness the lonely know : Stifling thy grief, to hear some weary task Conned by unwilling lips, with listless air, Hoarding thy means, lest future need might ask More than the widow's pittance then could spare. Hidden, forgotten by the great and gay, Enduring sorrow, not by fits and starts, But the long self-denial, day by day, Alone amidst thy brood of careless hearts ! Striving to guide, to teach, or to restrain, The young rebellious spirits crowding round, Who saw not, knew not, felt not for thy pain, And could not comfort — yet had power to wound J Ah ! how my selfish heart, which since hath grown Familiar with deep trials of its own, With riper judgment looking to the past, Regrets the careless days that flew so fast, Stamps with remorse each wasted hour of time, And darkens every folly into crime ' OBSCURITY OF WOMAN'S WORTH. In many a village churchyard's simple grave, Where all unmarked the cypress branches wave, In many a vault where Death could only claim The brief inscription of a woman's name ; Of different ranks, and different degrees, From daily labour to a life of ease, (From the rich wife who through the weary day Wept in her jewels, grief's unceasing prey, MRS. NORTON. 391 To the poor soul who trudged o'er marsh and moor, And with her baby begged from door to door, — ) Lie hearts, which, ere they found that last release, Had lost all memory of the blessing " Peace ;" Hearts, whose long struggle through unpitied years None saw but Him who marks the mourner's tears ; The obscurely noble ! who evaded not The woe which He had willed should be their lot, But nerved themselves to bear! Of such art thou, My Mother ! With thy calm and holy brow, And high devoted heart, which suffered still Unmurmuring, through each degree of ill. And, because Fate hath willed that mine should be A Poet's soul (at least in my degree,) — And that my verse would faintly shadow forth What I have seen of pure unselfish worth, — Therefore I speak of Thee; that those who read That trust in woman, which is still my creed, Thy early-widowed image may recall And greet thy nature as the type of all ! THE VISIONARY PORTRAIT. As by his lonely hearth he sate, The shadow of a welcome dream Passed o'er his heart, — disconsolate His home did seem; Comfort in vain was spread around, For something still was wanting found Therefore he thought of one who might For ever in his presence stay ; Whose dream should be of him by night, Whose smile should be for him by day; 392 MRS. NORTON. And the sweet vision, vague and far, Rose on his fancy like a star. " Let her be young, yet not a child, Whose light and inexperienced mirth Is all too winged and too wild For sober earth, — Too rainbow-like such mirth appears, And fades away in misty tears. " Let youth's fresh rose still gently bloom Upon her smooth and downy cheek, Yet let a shadow, not of gloom, But soft and meek, Tell that some sorrow she hath known, Though not a sorrow of her own. " And let her eyes be of the grey, The soft grey of the brooding dove, Full of the sweet and tender ray Of modest love ; For fonder shows that dreamy hue Than lustrous black or heavenly blue. " Let her be full of quiet grace, No sparkling wit with sudden glow Bright'ning her purely chiselled face And placid brow ; Not radiant to the slranger''s eye, — ■ A creature easily passed by ; "But who, once seen, with untold power For ever haunts the yearning heart, Raised from the crowd that self-same hour To dwell apart, All sainted and enshrined to be, The idol of our memory ! 393 MRS. NORTON. "And oh! let Mary be her name — It hath a sweet and gentle sound, At which no glories dear to fame Come crowding round, But which the dreaming heart beguiles With holy thoughts and household smiles. "With peaceful meetings, welcomes kind, And love, the same in joy and tears, And gushing intercourse of mind Through faithful years; Oh ! dream of something half divine, Be real — be mortal — and be mine!" THE SENSE OF BEAUTY. Spirit ! who over this our mortal earth, Where naught hath birth Which imperfection doth not some way dim Since earth offended Him — Thou who unseen, from out thy radiant wings Dost shower down light o'er mean and common things ; And, wandering to and fro, Through the condemned and sinful world dost go ; Haunting that wilderness, the human heart, With gleams of glory that too soon depart, Gilding both weed and flower; — What is thy birth divine ? and whence thy mighty power ? The sculptor owns thee ! On his high pale brow Bewildering images are pressing now; Groups whose immortal grace His chisel ne'er shall trace, Though in his mind the fresh creation glows ; 394 MRS. NORTON. High forms of godlike strength, Or limbs whose languid length The marble fixes in a sweet repose ! At thy command, His true and patient band Moulds the dull clay to beauty's richest line, Or with more tedious skill, Obedient to thy will, By touches imperceptible and fine, Works slowly day by day The rough-hewn block away, Till the soft shadow of the bust's pale smile Wakes into statue-life, and pays the assiduous toil f Thee the young painter knows, — whose fervent eyes, O'er the blank waste of canvass fondly bending, See fast within its magic circle rise Some pictured scene, with colours softly blending, — Green bowers and leafy glades, The old Arcadian shades, Where thwarting glimpses of the sun are thrown, And dancing nymphs and shepherds one by one Appear to bless his sight In fancy's glowing light, Peopling that spot of green earth's flowery breast With every attitude of joy and rest. Lo ! at his pencil's touch steals faintly forth (Like an uprising star in the cold north) Some face which soon shall glow with beauty's fire : Dim seems the sketch to those who stand around. Dim and uncertain as an echoed sound, But oh ! how bright to him, whose hand thou dost inspire Thee also, doth the dreaming poet hail, Fond comforter of many a weary day — MRS. NORTON. 395 When through the clouds his fancy's ear can sail To worlds of radiance far, how far, away ! At thy clear touch, (as at the burst of light Which morning shoots along the purple hills, Chasing the shadows of the vanished night, And silvering all the darkly gushing rills, Giving each waking blossom, gemmed with dew, Its bright and proper hue,) — He suddenly beholds the checkered face Of this old world in its young Eden grace ! Disease, and want, and sin, and pain, are not — Nor homely and familiar things : — man's lot Is like aspirations — bright and high; And even in the haunting thought that man must die, His dream so changes from its fearful strife, Death seems but fainting into purer life ! Nor only these thy presence woo, The less inspired own thee too ! Thou hast thy tranquil source In the deep well-springs of the human heart, And gushest with sweet force When most imprisoned ; causing tears to start In the worn citizen's o'erwearied eye, As, with a sigh, At the bright close of some rare holiday, He sees the branches wave, the waters play — And hears the clock's far distant mellow chime Warn him a busier world reclaims his time ! Thee, childhood's heart confesses, — when he sees The heavy rose-bud crimson in the breeze, When the red coral wins his eager gaze, Or the warm sunbeam dazzles with its rays, Thee through his varied hours of rapid joy, The eager boy, — 396 MRS. NORTON. Who wild across the grassy meadow springs, And still with sparkling eyes Pursues the uncertain prize, Lured by the velvet glory of its wings ! And so from youth to age — yea, till the end — An unforsaken, unforgetting friend, Thou hoverest round us ! And when all is o'er, And earth's most loved illusions please no more, Thou stealest gently to the couch of death ; There, while the lagging breath Comes faint and fitfully, to usher nigh, Consoling visions from thy native sky, Making it sweet to die ! The sick man's ears are faint — his eyes are dim — But his heart listens to the heavenward hymn, And his soul sees — in lieu of that sad band, Who come with mournful tread To kneel about his bed, — God's white-robed angels, who around him stand, And wave his spirit to " the Better Land !" So, living, — dying, — still our hearts pursue That loveliness which never met our view : Still to the last the ruling thought will reign, Nor deem one feeling given — was given in vain ! For it may be, our banished souls recall In this, their earthly thrall, (With the sick dreams of exiles,) that far world Whence angels once were hurled ; Or it may be, a faint and trembling sense Vague, as permitted by Omnipotence. Foreshows the immortal radiance round us shed, When the imperfect shall be perfected ! Like the chained eagle in his fettered might, Straining upon the heavens his wistful sight, MRS. NORTON. 397 Who toward the upward glory fondly springs, With all the vain strength of his shivering wings, — So chained to earth, and baffled — yet so fond Of the pure sky which lies so far beyond, We make the attempt to soar in many a thought Of beauty born, and into beauty wrought ; Dimly we struggle onwards : — who shall say Which glimmering light leads nearest to the day ? THE AUTUMN WIND. Hush, moaning autumn wind ! be still, be still ! Thy grieving voice forbiddeth hearts to rest ; We hear thee sweeping down the lonely hill, And mournful thoughts crowd o'er the human breast. Why wilt thou haunt us, with thy voice unkind, Sadd'ning the earth ? Hush, moaning autumn wind ! Toss not the branching trees so wildly high, Filling the forest with thy dreary sound ; Without thy aid the hues of summer die, And the sere leaves fall scattered to the ground. Thou dost but hasten, needlessly unkind, The winter's task, thou moaning autumn wind ! Sweep not through Ocean's caves with hollow roar, Driving our fair ships to some rock-bound strand . While the vexed sea foams wrathful to the shore, The seaman's wife looks shuddering from the land, And widowed hearts for many a year shall find Death in thy voice, thou moaning autumn wind ! Round our calm dwellings, when our hearts are gay, Roam not, oh howling spirit of Despair ! As though thou wert a creature seeking prey, And where the land looked richest, found it there. We have enough of memories unkind Without thy voice, thou moaning autumn wind ! 34 398 MRS. NORTON. Thee the sad mourner lists, and turns to weep, In the blank silence of her lonely home ; The sick man hears, and starts from broken sleep, And the night-wanderer sighs — compelled to roam ; While the poor shiver, for their huts unkind Bar thee not out, thou searching autumn wind ! Back to the barren hill and lonely glen ! Here let the wandering of thy echoes cease ; Sadly thou soundest to the hearts of men, — Hush thy wild voice, and let the earth have peace , Or, if no chain thy restless will can bind, Sweep through the desert, moaning autumn wind ! WEEP NOT FOR HIM THAT DIETH. "Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him; but weep sore for him that goeth away, for he shall return no more, nor see his native country." — Jeremiah xxii. 10. Weep not for him that dieth — For he sleeps, and is at rest; And the couch whereon he lieth Is the green earth's quiet breast ; But weep for him who pineth On a far land's hateful shore, Who wearily declineth Where ye see his face no more ! Weep not for him that dieth, For friends are round his bed, And many a young lip sigheth When they name the early dead : But weep for him that liveth Where none will know or care, When the groan his faint heart giveth Is the last sigh of despair. MRS. NORTON. 399 Weep not for him that dieth, For his struggling' soul is free. And the world from which it flieth Is a world of misery ; But weep for him that weareth The captive's galling chain : To the agony he beareth, Death were but little pain. Weep not for him that dieth, For he hath ceased from tears, And a voice to his replieth Which he hath not heard for years •, But weep for him who weepeth On that cold land's cruel shore — Blest, blest is he that sleepeth, — Weep for the dead no more ! THE CHILD OF EARTH. Fainter her slow step falls from day to day, Death's heavy hand is on her darkening brow ; Yet doth she fondly cling to earth, and say, " I am content to die, but, oh ! not now ! Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring Make the warm air such luxury to breathe ; Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing ; Not while bright flowers around my footsteps wreathe. Spare me, great God, lift up my drooping brow ! I am content to die — but oh ! not now !" The spring hath ripened into summer-time, The season's viewless boundary is past; The glorious sun hath reached his burning prime ; Oh ! must this glimpse of beauty be the last ? 400 MRS. NORTON. " Let me not perish while o'er land and lea, With silent steps the lord of light moves on ; Nor while the murmur of the mountain bee Greets my dull ear with music in its tone ! Pale sickness dims my eye, and clouds my brow ; I am content to die — but, oh! not now!" Summer is gone, and autumn's soberer hues Tint the ripe fruits, and gild the waving corn ! The huntsman swift the flying game pursues, Shouts the halloo, and winds the eager horn. " Spare me awhile to wander forth and gaze On the broad meadows and the quiet stream, To watch in silence while the evening rays Slant through the fading trees with ruddy gleam! Cooler the breezes play around my brow ; I am content to die — but, oh! not now!" The bleak wind whistles, snow-showers, far and near, Drift without echo to the whitening ground ; Autumn hath passed away, and, cold and drear, Winter stalks on, with frozen mantle bound. Yet still that prayer ascends : — Oh ! laughingly My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd, Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, and high, And the roof rings with voices glad and loud ; Spare me awhile ! raise up my drooping brow ! I am content to die — but, oh ! not now !" The spring is come again — the joyful spring ! Again the banks with clustering flowers are spread; The wild bird dips upon its wanton wing — The child of earth is numbered with the dead! "Thee nevermore the sunshine shall awake, Beaming all redly through the lattice pane ; MRS. NORTON. 401 The steps of friends thy slumbers may not break, Nor fond familiar voice arouse again ! Death's silent shadow veils thy darkened brow ; Why didst thou linger ? — thou art happier now !" SONNET. Like an enfranchised bird, who wildly springs, With a keen sparkle in his glancing eye And a strong effort in his quivering wings, Up to the blue vault of the happy sky, — So my enamoured heart, so long thine own, At length from Love's imprisonment set free, Goes forth into the open world alone, Glad and exulting in its liberty : But like that helpless bird, (confined so long, His weary wings have lost all power to soar,) Who soon forgets to trill his joyous song, And, feebly fluttering, sinks to earth once more, — So, from its former bonds released in vain, My heart still feels the weight of that remembered chain. SONNET. TO MY BOOKS. Silent companions of the lonely hour, Friends, who can never alter or forsake, Who for inconstant roving have no power, And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take, — Let me return to you ; this turmoil ending Which worldly cares have in my spirit wrought, And, o'er your old familiar pages bending, Refresh my mind with many a tranquil thought, Till, haply meeting there, from time to time, Fancies, the audible echo of my own, 34* 2 a 402 MRS. NORTON. 'T will be like hearing in a foreign clime My native language spoke in friendly tone, And with a sort of welcome I shall dwell On these, my unripe musings, told so well. SONNET. THE WEAVER. Little they think, the giddy and the vain, Wandering at pleasure 'neath the shady trees, While the light glossy silk or rustling train Shines in the sun or flutters in the breeze, How the sick weaver plies the incessant loom, Crossing in silence the perplexing thread, Pent in the confines of one narrow room, Where droops complainingly his cheerless head : — Little they think with what dull anxious eyes, Nor by what nerveless, thin, and trembling hands, The devious mingling of those various dyes Were wrought to answer Luxury's commands : — But the day cometh when the tired shall rest, — Where weary Lazarus leans his head on Abraham's breast ! B I N G EN. A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears ; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, And he said, " I never more shall see my own, my native land ; Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen, — at Bingen on the Rhine. MRS. NORTON. 403 "Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around, To hear my mournful story in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done, Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun. And 'midst the dead and dying, were some grown old in Avars, The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars: But some were young — and suddenly beheld life's morn decline, And one had come from Bingen, — fair Bingen on the Rhine ! " Tell my mother, that her other sons shall comfort her old age, And I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage : For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild ; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er he would, but kept my father's sword, And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine. On the cottage-wall at Bingen — calm Bingen on the Rhine ! " Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant tread ; But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die. And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame; And to hang the old sword in its place, (my father's sword and mine,) For the honour of old Bingen, — dear Bingen on the Rhine ! " There's another — not a sister ; in the happy days gone by, You 'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye; Too innocent for coquetry, — too fond for idle scorning, — Oh ! friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning, 404 MRS. NORTON. Tell her the last night of my life (for ere this moon be risen My body will be out of pain — my soul be out of prison,) I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen, — ■ fair Bingen on the Rhine ! " I saw the blue Rhine sweep along — I heard or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear ; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still, And her glad blue eyes were on me as we passed with friendly talk Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk, And her little hand lay lightly, — confidingly in mine, But we '11 meet no more at Bingen, — loved Bingen on the Rhine !" THE NEW-BORN CHILD. Of all the joys that brighten suffering earth, What joy is welcomed like a new-born child? What life so wretched, but that, at its birth, Some heart rejoiced — some lip in gladness smiled? The poorest cottager, by love beguiled, Greets his new burden with a kindly eye ; He knows his son must toil as he hath toiled ; But cheerful Labour, standing patient by, Laughs at the warning shade of meagre Poverty ! The pettiest squire who holds his bounded sway In some far nook of England's fertile ground, Keeps a high jubilee the happy day Which bids the bonfires blaze, the joybells sound, And the small tenantry come flocking round, While the old steward triumphs to declare The mother's suffering hour with safety crowned ; And then, with reverent eyes, and grey locks bare, Falters — "God bless the Boy!" his Master's Son and Heir! MRS. NORTON. 405 The youthful couple, whose sad marriage-vow Received no sanction from a haughty sire, Feel, as they gaze upon their infant's brow, Hope — the old friend whose strong wings never tire — Once more their long discouraged hearts inspire ; For sure, they deem, the smiles of that young face, Shall thaw the frost, of his relentless ire : The pathway of their home their thoughts retrace, And, weeping, yearn to meet his reconciled embrace ! Yea, for this cause, even Shame will step aside, And cease to bow the head and wring the heart ; For she that is a mother, but no bride, Out of her lethargy of woe will start, Pluck from her side that sorrow's barbed dart, And, now no longer faint and full of fears, Plan how she best protection may impart To the lone course of those forsaken years, Which dawn in Love's warm light though doomed to set in tears ! The dread exception — when some frenzied mind, Crushed by the weight of unforeseen distress, Grows to that feeble creature all unkind, And Nature's sweetest fount, through grief's excess, Is strangely turned to gall and bitterness ; When the deserted babe is left to lie, Far from the woeful mother's lost caress, Under the broad cope of the solemn sky, Or, by her shuddering hands, forlorn, condemned to die : Yes, deem her mad ! for holy is the sway Of that mysterious sense which bids us bend Toward the young souls new clothed in helpless clay, Fragile beginnings of a mighty end, — ■ 406 MRS. NORTON. Angels un winged, — which human care must tend Till they can tread the world's rough path alone, Serve for themselves, or in themselves offend. But God o'erlooketh all from His high throne, And sees, with eyes benign, their weakness — and our own! Therefore we pray for them, when sunset brings Rest to the joyous heart and shining head; When flowers are closed, and birds fold up their wings, And watchful mothers pass each cradle-bed With hushed soft steps, and earnest eyes that shed Tears far more glad than smiling ! Yea, all day We bless them; while, by guileless pleasure led, Their voices echo in their gleesome play, And their whole careless souls are making holiday. And if, by Heaven's inscrutable decree, Death calls, and human skill is vain to save ; If tli e bright child that clambered to our knee, Cold and inactive, fills the silent grave ; Then with what wild lament we moan and rave ! What passionate tears fall down in ceaseless shower! There lies Perfection ! — there, of all life gave — The bud that would have proved the sweetest flower That ever woke to bloom within an earthly bower ! For, in this hope our intellects abjure All reason — all experience — and forego Belief in that which only is secure, Our natural chance and share of human woe. The father pitieth David's heart-struck blow, But for himself, such augury defies : No future Absalom his love can know : No pride, no passion, no rebellion lies In the unsullied depth of those delightful eyes ! MRS. NORTON. 407 Their innocent faces open like a book, Full of sweet prophecies of coming good ; And we who pore thereon with loving look, Read what we most desire, not what we should ; Even that which suits our own Ambition's mood. The Scholar sees distinction promised there, — ■ The Soldier, laurels in the field of blood, — The Merchant, venturous skill and trading fair, — None read of broken hope — of failure — of despair! Nor ever can a Parent's gaze behold Defect of Nature as a stranger doth ; For these, with judgment true, severe, and cold, Mark the ungainly step of heavy Sloth, — ■ Coarseness of features, — tempers easy wroth : But those, with dazzled hearts such errors spy, A halo of indulgence circling both : The plainest child a stranger passes by, Shows lovely to the sight of some enamoured eye ! The Mother looketh from her latticed pane — Her Children's voices echoing sweet and clear : With merry leap and bound her side they gain, Offering their wild field-fiow'rets : all are dear, Yet still she listens with an absent ear : For, while the strong and lovely round her press, A halt uneven step sounds drawing near : And all she leaves, that crippled child to bless, Folding him to her heart, with cherishing caress. PRAYER FOR THE YOUNG PRINCE. They pray for thee, fair child, in Gothic piles, Where the full organ's deep reverberate sound Rolls echoing through the dim cathedral aisles, Bidding the heart with solemn rapture bound, 408 MRS. NORTON. And the bent knee sink trembling to the ground. Where, at the signal of some given word, The white-robed choristers rise circling round ; Mingling clear voices with divine accord, In Hallelujahs loud, that magnify the Lord ! They pray for thee in many a village church, Deep in the shade of its sequestered dell, Where, scarcely heard beyond the lowly porch, More simple hymns of praise less loudly swell ; Oft led by some fair form, — remembered well In after years among the grateful poor — Whose lot it is in lordly halls to dwell, Thence issuing forth to seek the cotter's door, Or tread with gentle feet the sanded schoolhouse floor. They pray for thee, in floating barks that cleave A compass-guided path along the sea ; While through the topmast shrouds the keen winds grieve, As through the branches of some giant tree ; And the surf sparkles in the vessel's lee. Far from thine Albion's cliffs and native home, Each crew of loyal mariners may be, But mingling with the dash of Ocean's foam, That prayer shall rise, where'er their trackless course they roam. And where, all newly on some foreign soil Transplanted from the o'erpeopled Fatherland, Where hardy enterprise and honest toil Availed them not — the Emigrant's thin band, Gathered for English worship, sadly stand ; Repressing wandering thoughts, which vainly crave The Sabbath clasp of some familiar hand, Or yearn to pass the intervening wave, And wet with Memory's tears some daisy-tufted grave: — MRS. NORTON. 409 There, even there, thy name is not forgot — Child of the land where they were children too ! Though severed ties and exile be their lot, And Fortune now with different aspect woo, — Still to their country and religion true, From them the Indian learns, in broken phrase, To worship Heaven as his converters do ; Simply he joins their forms of prayer and praise, And, in Thy native tongue, pleads for Thy valued days. COMMON BLESSINGS. Those " common blessings !" In this chequered scene How little thanksgiving ascends to God ! Is it, in truth, a privilege so mean To wander with free footsteps o'er the sod, See various blossoms paint the valley clod, And all things into teeming beauty burst? — A miracle as great as Aaron's rod, But that our senses, into dullness nurst, Recurring Custom still with Apathy hath curst. They who have rarest joy, know Joy's true measure ; They who most suffer, value Suffering's pause ; They who but seldom taste the simplest pleasure, Kneel oftenest to the Giver and the Cause. Heavy the curtains feasting Luxury draws, To hide the sunset and the silver night ; While humbler hearts, when care no longer gnaws, And some rare holiday permits delight, Lingering, with love would watch that earth-enchanting sight. "the artist-heart." Wilt thou take measure of such minds as these, Or sound, with plummet-line the Artist-Heart ? Look where he meditates among the trees — His eyelids full of love, his lips apart 35 410 MRS. NORTON. With restless smiles ; while keen his glances dart, Above — around — below — as though to seek Some dear companion, whom, with eager start, He will advance to welcome, and then speak The burning thoughts for which all eloquence is weak. How glad he looks ! Whom goeth he to meet ? Whom? God: — there is no solitude for him. Lies the earth lonely round his wandering feet ? The birds are singing in the branches dim, The water ripples to the fountains' brim, The young lambs in the distant meadows bleat ; And he himself beguiles fatigue of limb With broken lines, and snatches various sweet, Of ballads old, quaint hymns for Nature's beauty meet! THE PRISON CHAPLAIN. I saw one man, armed simply with God's Word, Enter the souls of many fellow-men, And pierce them sharply as a two edged-sword, While conscience echoed back his words again ; Till, even as showers of fertilizing rain Sink through the bosom of the valley clod, So their hearts opened to the wholesome pain, And hundreds knelt upon the flowery sod, One good man's earnest prayer the link 'twixt them and God. That amphitheatre of awe-struck heads Is still before me : there the Mother bows, And o'er her slumbering infant meekly sheds Unusual tears. There, knitting his dark brows, The penitent blasphemer utters vows Of holy import. There, the kindly man, Whose one weak vice went near to bid him lose All he most valued when his life began, Abjures the evil course which first he blindly ran. MRS. NORTON. 411 There, with pale eyelids heavily weighed down By a new sense of overcoming shame, A youthful Magdalen, whose arm is thrown Round a young sister who deserves no blame ; As though like innocence she now would claim, Absolved by a pure God ! And, near her, sighs The father who refused to speak her name : Her penitence is written in her eyes — Will he not, too, forgive, and bless her, ere she rise ? A FABLE. Hear a brief fable. One, with heedless tread, Came o'er the wild fair grass that ne'er was mown : Then said the grass, — "Your heel is on my head; And, where in harmless freedom I have grown, Sorely your iron foot hath tramped me down ; But God, — who to my veins such freshness gave, Shall heal me with a healing of his own, Till I, perchance, may lift my head to wave Above the marble tomb that presses down your grave." NEUTRALITY. Oh ! there are moments of our lives, when such As will not help to lift us, strike us down ! When the green bough just bends so near our clutch, When the light rope so easily was thrown, That they are murderers that behold us drown. Well spoke the Poet-Heart so tried by woe, That there are hours when left despairing, lone, " Each idle On-looker appears a Foe ;" For Hate can scarce do worse, than no compassion show. Neutrality is Hate : the aid withheld, Flings its large balance in the adverse scale ; And makes the enemy we might have quelled, Strong to attack, and certain to prevail ; 412 MRS. NORTON, Yea, clothes him, scoffing, in a suit of mail ! Those are the days which teach unhappy elves No more such callous bosom to assail ; The rocky soil no more the weak one delves ; Upright we stand, and trust — in God, and in ourselves. THE BLIND. The wild bird's carol in the pleasant woods Is all he knows of Spring ! The rich perfume Of flowers, with all their various scented buds, Tells him to welcome Summer's heavy bloom : And by the wearied gleaners trooping home, — The heavy tread of many gathering feet, — And by the laden Wagon-loads that come Brushing the narrow hedge with burden sweet, — He guesses Harvest in, and Autumn's store complete. But in God's Temple the great lamp is out ; And he must worship glory in the Dark ! Till Death, in midnight mystery, hath brought The veiled Soul's re-illuminating spark, — The pillar of the Cloud enfolds the ark! And, like a man that prayeth underground In Bethlehem's rocky shrine, he can but mark The lingering hours by circumstance and sound, And break with gentle hymns the solemn silence round. Yet still Life's Better Light shines out above ! And in that village church where first he learned To bear his cheerless doom for Heaven's dear love, He sits, with wistful face for ever turned To hear of those who heavenly pity earned : Blind Bartimeus, and him desolate Who for Bethesda's waters vainly yearned : And inly sighs, condemned so long to wait, Baffled and helpless still, beyond the Temple gate ! MISS ELIZA COOK. There is a heartiness and truthful sympathy with human kind, a love of freedom and of nature, in this lady's productions, which, more even than their grace and melody, charms her readers. She writes like a whole-souled woman, earnestly and unaffectedly, evidently giving' her actual thoughts, but never transcending the limits of taste or delicacy. The favour with which her numerous pieces have been received, and the ease with which she writes, encourage us to hope for much future delight and instruction from her generous pen. It may be hoped, also, that she will take more pains in the finishing of her verses, than she has hitherto done, and avoid a repetition of ideas, a fault to which she is somewhat prone. The most of her Poems were collected in England, 1840, and republished here 1844, under the title, Meluia and other Poems ; the American edition containing many pieces written since the date of the English. THE FREE. The wild streams leap with headlong sweep In their curbless course o'er the mountain steep; All fresh and strong they foam along, Waking the rocks with their cataract song. My eye bears a glance like the beam on a lance, While I watch the waters dash and dance ; I burn with glee, for I love to see The path of any thing that's free. The skylark springs with dew on his wings, And up in the arch of heaven he sings Trill-la, trill-la — oh, sweeter far Than the notes that come through a golden bar. 35 * ( 413 ) 414 MISS ELIZA COOK. The joyous bay of a hound at play, The caw of a rook on its homeward way — Oh ! these shall be the music for me, For I love the voices of the free. The deer starts by with his antlers high, Proudly tossing his head to the sky ; The barb runs the plain unbroke by the rein, With steaming nostrils and flying mane ; The clouds are stirred by the eaglet bird, As the flap of its swooping pinion is heard. Oh ! these shall be the creatures for me, For my soul was formed to love the free. The mariner brave, in his bark on the wave, May laugh at the walls round a kingly slave ; And the one whose lot is the desert spot, Has no dread of an envious foe in his cot. The thrall and state at the palace gate Are what my spirit has learnt to hate : Oh ! the hills shall be a home for me, For I 'd leave a throne for the hut of the free. BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES. I never see a young hand hold The starry bunch of white and gold, But something warm and fresh will start About the region of my heart. My smile expires into a sigh ; I feel a struggling in the eye, 'Twixt humid drop and sparkling ray, Till rolling tears have won their way ; For soul and brain will travel back Through memory's chequered mazes, To days when I but trod life's track For buttercups and daisies. MISS ELIZA COOK. Tell me, ye men of wisdom rare, Of sober speech and silver hair, Who carry counsel, wise and sage, With all the gravity of age; Oh! say, do ye not like to hear The accents ringing in your ear, When sportive urchins laugh and shout, Tossing those precious flowers about, Springing with bold and gleesome bound, Proclaiming joy that crazes, And chorusing the magic sound Of buttercups and daisies ? Are there, I ask, beneath the sky Blossoms that knit so strong a tie With childhood's love ? Can any please Or light the infant eye like these ? No, no ; there 's not a bud on earth, Of richest tint or warmest birth, Can ever fling such zeal and zest Into the tiny hand and breast. Who does not recollect the hours When burning words and praises Were lavished on those shining flowers, Buttercups and daisies ? There seems a bright and fairy spell About their very names to dwell ; And though old Time has marked my brow With care and thought, I love them now. Smile, if ye will, but some heart-strings Are closest linked to simplest things ; And these wild flowers will hold mine fast, Till love, and life, and all be past; And then the only wish I have Is, that the one who raises The turf-sod o'er me plant my grave With buttercups and daisies. 415 416 MISS ELIZA COOK, 'Tis passing sad to note the face Where haggard grief has ta'en its place, Where the soul's keen anguish can but speak In the glistening lash and averted cheek — When the restless orbs with struggling pride Swell with the tears they fain would hide, Till the pouring drops and heaving throbs Burst forth in strong impassioned sobs. 'T is fearful to mark where passion reigns, With gnashing teeth and starting veins ; When the reddened eyeballs flash and glare With dancing flame in their maniac stare ; When Fury sits on the gathered brow With quivering muscle and fiery glow ; 'Tis fearful indeed just then to scan The lineaments of God-like man. 'T is sad to gaze on the forehead fair, And mark the work of suffering there ; When the oozing pain-wrung moisture drips, And whiteness dwells round the parted lips ; When the breath on those lips is so short and faint That it falters in yielding the lowest plaint : Who does not sigh to read such tale On cheeks all shadowy and pale ? But have ye watched the mien that bore A look to be feared and pitied more — Have ye seen the crimson torrent steal O'er the one who has erred, and yet can feel — When the stammering speech and downcast eye Quailed from the mean detected lie ? Have ye marked the conscious spirit proclaim Its torture 'neath the brand of shame ? MISS ELIZA COOK. 417 Oh ! this to me is the look which hath More hideous seeming than honest wrath. Let pain distort with its harrowing might, Or sorrow rob the glance of its light, Yet the pallid chill or the fevered flush Sears less than falsehood's scathing blush. Nay, look on the brow ; 't is better to trace The lines of death than the shade of disgrace. STANZAS. 'Tis well to give honour and glory to age, With its lessons of wisdom and truth ; Yet who would not go back to the fanciful page, And the fairy tale read but in youth ? Let time rolling on crown with fame or with gold — Let us bask in the kindliest beams ; Yet what hope can be cherished, what gift can we hold, That will bless like our earlier dreams ? As wine that hath stood for awhile on the board May yet glow as the luscious and bright •, But not with the freshness when first it was poured, Nor its brim-kissing sparkles of light. As the flowers live on in their fragrance and bloom, The long summer-day to adorn, Yet fail with their beauty to charm and illume As when clothed with the dew gems of morn : So life may retain its full portion of joy, And fortune give all that she can ; But the feelings that gladden the breast of the hoy Will never be found in the man. 2b 418 MISS ELIZA COOK CUPID'S arrow. Young Cupid went storming to Vulcan one day, And besought him to look at his arrow. " ' T is useless," he cried ; " you must mend it, I say ; 'T is n't fit to let fly at a sparrow. There 's something that 's wrong in the shaft or the dart, For it flutters quite false to my aim ; 'T is an age since it fairly went home to the heart, And the world really jests at my name. " I have straightened, I 've bent, I 've tried all, I declare, I've perfumed it with sweetest of sighs; 'T is feathered with ringlets my mother might wear, And the barb gleams with light from young eyes ; But it falls without touching — I '11 break it, I vow, For there's Hymen beginning to pout; He's complaining his torch burns so dull and so low That Zephyr might puff it right out." Little Cupid went on with his pitiful tale, Till Vulcan the weapon restored. " There, take it, young sir ; try it now — if it fail, I will ask neither fee nor reward." The urchin shot out, and rare havoc he made ; The wounded and dead were untold; But no wonder the rogue had such slaughtering trade, For the arrow was laden with gold. THE LOVED ONE WAS NOT THERE, We gathered round the festive board, The crackling fagot blazed, But few would taste the wine that poured, Or join the song we raised. MISS ELIZA COOK. 419 For there was now a glass unfilled — A favoured place to spare ; All eyes were dull, all hearts were chilled — The loved one was not there. No happy laugh was heard to ring, No form would lead the dance ; A smothered sorrow seemed to fling A gloom in every glance. The grave had closed upon a brow, The honest, bright, and fair ; We missed our mate, we mourned the blow — The loved one was not there. HOME IN THE HEART. Oh ! ask not a home in the mansions of pride, Where marble shines out in the pillars and walls ; Though the roof be of gold it is brilliantly cold, And joy may not be found in its torch-lighted halls. But seek for a bosom all honest and true, Where love once awakened will never depart; Turn, turn to that breast like the dove to its nest, And you '11 find there 's no home like a home in the heart. Oh ! link but one spirit that 's warmly sincere, That will heighten your pleasure and solace your care ; Find a soul you may trust as the kind and the just, And be sure the wide world holds no treasure so rare. Then the frowns of misfortune may shadow our lot, The cheek-searing tear-drops of sorrow may start, But a star never dim sheds a halo for him Who can turn for repose to a home in the heart. 420 MISS ELIZA COOK. Blandly glowing, richly bright Cheering star of social light ; While I gently heap it higher, How I bless thee, sparkling fire ■ Who loves not the kindly rays Streaming from the tempered blaze ? Who can sit beneath his hearth Dead to feeling, stern to mirth ? Who can watch the crackling pile And keep his breast all cold the while ? Fire is good, but it must serve : Keep it thralled — for if it swerve Into freedom's open path, What shall check its maniac wrath ? Where 's the tongue that can proclaim The fearful work of curbless flame ? Darting wide and shooting high, It lends a horror to the sky ; It rushes on to waste, to scare, Arousing terror and despair ; It tells the utmost earth can know About the demon scenes below ; And sinks at last, all spent and dead, Among the ashes it has spread. Sure the poet is not wrong To glean a moral from the song. Listen, youth ! nor scorn, nor frown, Thou must chain thy passions down. Well to serve, but ill to sway, Like the fire they must obey. MISS ELIZA COOK. 421 They are good in the subject state To strengthen, warm, and animate ; But if once we let them reign, They sweep with desolating train, Till they but leave a hated name, A ruined soul, and blackened fame. STANZAS. I 've tracked the paths of the dark wild wood, No footfall there but my own; I 've lingered beside the moaning flood, But I never felt alone. There were lovely things for my soul to meet, Rare work for my eye to trace : I held communion close and sweet With a Maker — face to face. 1 have sat in the cheerless, vacant room, At the stillest hour of night, With naught to break upon the gloom But the taper's sickly light ; And there I have conjured back again The loved ones, lost and dead, Till my swelling heart and busy brain Have hardly deemed them fled. I may rove the waste or tenant the cell, But alone I never shall be ; While this form is a home where the spirit may dwell, There is something to mate with me. Wait till ye turn from my mindless clay And the shroud o'er my breast is thrown, And then, but not till then, ye may say, That I am left alone ! 36 422 MISS ELIZA COOK. THE WELCOME BACK. Sweet is the hour that brings us home, Where all will spring to meet us ; Where hands are striving, as we come, To be the first to greet us. When the world hath spent its frowns and wrath, And care hath been sorely pressing : 'T is sweet to turn from our roving path, And find a fireside blessing. Oh, joyfully dear is the homeward track, If we are but sure of a welcome back. What do we reck on a dreary way, Though lonely and benighted, If we know there are lips to chide our stay, And eyes that will beam love-lighted ? What is the worth of your diamond ray, To the glance that flashes pleasure ; When the words that welcome back betray. We form a heart's chief treasure ? Oh, joyfully dear is our homeward track, If we are but sure of a welcome back WASHINGTON. Land of the west ! though passing brief the record of thine age, Thou hast a name that darkens all on history's wide page ! Let all the blasts of fame ring out — thine shall be loudest far : Let others boast their satellites — thou hast the planet star. Thou hast a name whose characters of light shall ne'er depart ; 'T is stamped upon the dullest brain, and warms the coldest heart ; A war-cry fit for any land where freedom's to be won. Land of the west ! it stands alone — it is thy Washington ! MISS ELIZA COOK. 423 Rome had its Caesar, great and brave ; but stain was on his wreath : He lived the heartless conqueror, and died the tyrant 's death. France had its Eagle ; but his wings, though lofty they might soar, Were spread in false ambition's flight, and c 1 ipped in murder's gore. Those hero-gods, whose mighty sway would fain have chained the waves — Who fleshed their blades with tiger zeal, to make a world of slaves — Who, though their kindred barred the path, still fiercely waded on — Oh, where shall be their " glory" by the side of Washington ? He fought, but not with love of strife ; he struck but to defend ; And ere he turned a people's foe, he sought to be a friend. He strove to keep his country's right by reason's gentle word, And sighed when fell injustice threw the challenge — sword to sword. He stood the firm, the calm, the wise, the patriot and sage ; He showed no deep, avenging hate — no burst of despot rage. He stood for liberty and truth, and dauntlessly led on, Till shouts of victory gave forth the name of Washington. No car of triumph bore him through a city filled with grief; No groaning captives at the wheels proclaimed him victor chief: He broke the gyves of slavery with strong and high disdain, And cast no sceptre from the links when he had crushed the chain. He saved his land, but did not lay his soldier trappings down To change them for the regal vest, and don a kingly crown ; Fame was too earnest in her joy — too proud of such a son — To let a robe and title mask a noble Washington. 424 MISS ELIZA COOK. England, my heart is truly thine — my loved, my native earth ! — The land that holds a mother's grave, and gave that mother birth ! Oh, keenly sad would be the fate that thrust me from thy shore, And faltering my breath, that sighed, " Farewell for evermore!" But did I meet such adverse lot, 1 would not seek to dwell Where olden heroes wrought the deeds for Homer's song to tell. Away, thou gallant ship ! I'd cry, and bear me swiftly on : But bear me from my own fair land to that of Washington ! 'tis sweet to love in childhood. 'Tis sweet to love in childhood, when the souls that we bequeath Are beautiful in freshness as the coronals we wreath ; When we feed the gentle robin, and caress the leaping hound, And linger latest on the spot where buttercups are found ; When we seek the bee and ladybird with laughter, shout, and song, And think the day for wooing them can never be too long : Oh ! 't is sweet to love in childhood, and though woke by meanest things, The music that the heart yields then, will never leave its strings. 'T is sweet to love in after years the sweet one by our side, To dote with all the mingled joys of passion, hope, and pride; To think the chain around her breast will hold still warm and fast, And grieve to know that Death must come to break the link at last. But when the rainbow span of bliss is waning hue by hue, When eyes forget their kindly beams and lips become less true ; When stricken hearts are pining on through many a lonely hour Who would not sigh, " 'T is safer far to love the bird and flower ?" 'T is sweet to love in ripened age the trumpet blast of Fame, To pant to live on Glory's scroll, though blood may trace the name ; MISS ELIZA COOK. 425 'T is sweet to love the heap of gold, and hug it to our breast — To trust it as the guiding star and anchor of our rest. But such devotion will not serve, however strong the zeal, To overflow the altar where our childhood loved to kneel. Some bitter moment shall o'ercast the sun of wealth and power, And then proud man would fain go back to worship bird and flower. THE LAST GOOD-BYE. Farewell ! Farewell ! is often heard From the lips of those who part : 'T is a whispered tone, 'tis a gentle word, But it springs not from the heart. It may serve for the lover's lay, To be sung 'neath a summer sky ; But give me the lips that say The honest words, "Good-bye !" Adieu ! Adieu ! may greet the ear In the guise of courtly speech ; But when we leave the kind and dear, 'T is not what the soul would teach. Whene'er we grasp the hands of those We would have for ever nigh, The flame of friendship burns aud glows In the warm, frank words, " Good-bye !" The mother sending forth her child To meet with cares and strife, Breathes through her tears her doubts and fears For the loved one's future life. No cold u adieu," no « farewell," lives W r ithin her choking sighs ; But the deepest sob of anguish gives, " God bless thee, boy ! — good-bye !" 36* 426 MISS ELIZA COOK. Go, watch the pale and dying one, When the glance has lost its beam — When the brow is cold as the marble stone, And the world a passing dream ; And the latest pressure of the hand, The look of the closing eye, Yield what the heart must, understand — A long, a last "Good-bye." THE HEART, THE HEART. The heart — the heart! oh! let it be A true and bounteous thing ; As kindly warm, as nobly free, As eagle's nestling wing. Oh ! keep it not, like miser's gold, Shut in from all beside ; But let its precious stores unfold, In mercy, far and wide. The heart — the heart, that's truly blest, Is never all its own ; No ray of glory lights the breast That beats for self alone. The heart — the heart! oh! let it spare A sigh for other's pain ; The breath that soothes a brother's care Is never spent in vain And though it throb at gentlest touch, Or Sorrow's faintest call, 'T were better it should ache too much, Than never ache at all. The heart — the heart, that 's truly blest, Is never all its own ; No ray of glory lights the breast That beats for self alone. MISS ELIZA COOK. 427 THE DYING OLD MAN TO HIS YOUNG WIFE. Kate, there 's a trembling at my heart, a coldness at my brow, My sight is dim, my breath is faint, I feel I 'm dying now ; But ere my vision fadeth quite, ere all of strength be o'er, Oh ! let me look into thy face and press thy hand once more. I would my latest glance should fall on what I hold most dear : But, ah ! thy cheek is wet again — wipe, wipe away the tear. Such tears of late have often gemmed thy drooping eyelid's fringe, Such tears of late have washed away thy young cheek's ruddy tinge. I brought thee from a simple home to be an old man's bride, Thou wert the altar where I laid affection, joy, and pride ; My heart's devotion, like the sun, shone forth with dimless power, And kept its brightest glory rays to mark its setting hour. I brought thee from a simple home, when early friends had met, And something filled thy farewell tone that whispered of regret. Oh ! could I wonder, when you left warm spirits like your own, To dwell upon far distant earth with age and wealth alone ? I gazed with holy fondness on thy meek retiring eye, Soft in its beaming as the first fair star of evening's sky ; I marked the dimpled mirth around thy sweet lips when they smiled, And while I loved thee as a bride I blest thee as a child. But, oh ! thy young and glowing heart could not respond to mine, My whitened hairs seemed mocked by those rich sunny curls of thine ; And though thy gentle faith was kind as woman's faith can be, 'T was as the spring-flower clinging round the winter-blighted tree. 428 MISS ELIZA COOK. My speech is faltering and low — the world is fading fast — The sands of life are few and slow — this day will be my last - , I 've something for thine ear — bend close — list to my failing word, Lay what I utter to thy soul, and start not when 't is heard. There 's one who loves thee — though his love has never lived in speech — He worships as a devotee the star he cannot reach ; He strives to mask his throbbing breast and hide its burning glow ; But I have pierced the veil and seen the struggling heart below. Nay, speak not. I alone have been the selfish and unwise; Young hearts will nestle with young hearts, young eyes will meet young eyes. And when I saw his earnest glance turn hopelessly away, I thanked the hand of Time that gave me warning of decay. I question not thy bosom, Kate — I cast upon thy name No memory of jealous fear, no lightest shade of blame. I know that he has loved thee long, with deep and secret truth ; I know he is a fitting one to bless thy trusting youth. Weep not for me with bitter grief ; I would but have thee tell, That he who bribed thee to his heart has cherished thee right well. I give thee to another, Kate — and may that other prove As grateful for the blessing held, as doting in his love. Bury me in the churchyard where the dark yew branches wave, And promise thou wilt come sometimes to weed the old man's grave ; 'Tis all I ask! I'm blind — I'm faint — take, take my parting breath — I die within thy arms, my Kate, and feel no sting of death. MISS ELIZA COOK. 429 HARVEST SONG. I love, I love to see Bright steel gleam through the land ; 'Tis a goodly sight, but it must be In the reaper's tawny hand. The helmet and the spear Are twined with laurel wreath ; But the trophy is wet with the orphan's tear, And blood-spots rest beneath. I love to see the field That is moist with purple stain; But not where bullet, sword, and shield, Lie strown with gory slain. No, no: 'tis when the sun Shoots down his cloudless beams, Till the rich and bursting juice-drops run On the vineyard earth it streams. My glowing heart beats high At the sight of shining gold ; But is not that which the miser's eye Delighteth to behold. A brighter wealth by far Than the deep mine's yellow vein, Is seen around, in the fair hills crowned With sheaves of burnished grain. Look forth, ye toiling men ; Though little ye possess, Be glad that dearth is not on earth, To leave that little less. 130 MRS. SARAH HENRY COLERIDGE. Let the song of praise be poured, In gratitude and joy, By the rich man with his garners stored, And the ragged gleaner boy. The feast that warfare gives Is not for one alone — 'T is shared by the meanest slave that lives, And the tenant of a throne. Then glory to the steel That shines in the reaper's hand ; And thanks to God, who has blessed the sod, And crowns the harvest land ! MRS. SARAH HENRY COLERIDGE, In some fugitive pieces, but especially in her exquisite prose tale Phantasmion (1837), has evinced poetical talent of no common order. With an imagination like a prism shedding rainbow changes on her thoughts, she shows study without the affectation of it, and a Greek- like closeness of expression. The following song is not a translation, nor an imitation of Sappho's famous ode, yet is conceived in the same spirit. ' One face alone, one face alone, These eyes require ; But when that longed-for sight is shown, What fatal fire Shoots thro' my veins a keen and liquid flame, That melts each fibre of my wasting frame ! MRS. SARAH HENRY COLERIDGE. 431 One voice alone, one voice alone, I pine to hear-, But when its meek, mellifluous tone Usurps mine ear, Those slavish chains about my soul are wound, Which ne'er, till death itself, can be unbound. One gentle hand, one gentle hand, I fain would hold ; But when it seems at my command, My own grows cold ; Then low to earth I bend in sickly swoon, Like lilies drooping mid the blaze of noon.' A MOTHER OVER HER CHILD DEVOTED TO DEATH. ' O sleep, my babe ! Hear not the rippling wave, Nor feel the breeze that round thee lingering strays, To drink thy balmy breath, And sigh one long farewell. Soon shall it mourn above thy watery bed, And whisper to me on the wave-beat shore, Deep murm'ring in reproach Thy sad, untimely fate. Ere those dear eyes had opened on the light. In vain to plead, thy coming life was sold ; O ! wakened but to sleep, Whence it can wake no more ! A thousand and a thousand silken leaves The tufted beach unfolds in early spring, All clad in tenderest green, All of the self-same shape : 432 MISS LOWE. A thousand infant faces, soft and sweet, Each year sends forth, yet every mother views Her last, not least, beloved Like its dear self alone. No musing mind hath ever yet foreshaped The face to-morrow's sun shall first reveal, No heart hath e'er conceived What love that face will bring. O sleep, my babe ! nor heed how mourns the gale To part with thy soft locks and fragrant breath, As when it deeply sighs O'er autumn's latest bloom. MISS LOWE, Daughter of the Dean of Exeter, in her ' Poems chiefly Dramatic (1840), excites our wonder by her truly classical spirit and Miltonian English. Here is an extract from her "Cephalus and Procris," which sings in strophe and antistrophe like an ancient tragic chorus. HOUR OF NIGHT DEPARTING. Soft pacing down the western sky, Sad-suited Night in silence goes ; Her dragons slow, with sleepless eye, She guideth to repose. And following still the noiseless wain, I must not loiter from her train ; Nor ever gaze on light's gay throng, Nor join my sisters' dance and song, When glows the orient main. MISS LOWE 433 Her cypress veil, far-floating spread, In darkness shrouds my drooping head, And solemn is our gliding tread Towards Erebus' domain. HOUR OF DAWN. With hovering skirts the horizon shading, How tardily grave Night retires ! Now from the empyrean fading, Winking stars withdraw their fires ; Yet doth the east look wan and chill — Ah ! why, Aurora, slumber'st still ? Daughter of Hyperion, rise ! In saffron robes and bright array. With many-mingling roseate dyes ; Nor wrapt in sober amice grey. Thy belted knight, Orion strong, On his far journey lingereth long, Nor yet thy coming spies. High above old Ocean's stream Phosphor flames with herald beam ; The mist-hung hills thine absence know, The vales and pleasant meads below, — All bathed in cooling dews they lie Beneath the pale transparent sky. To meet thee o'er yon Indian steeps Pard-borne Bacchus vigil keeps ; All night he swept the desert plain, With revel rude, and reckless train Of frantic Thyades around, Startling with unwonted sound Sleep's leaden ear in silence bound. 37 2 c FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER, Daughter of Charles Kernble, and niece of John Philip Kemble and Mrs. Siddons, shares in an eminent degree the mind of her distinguished family, and has given the world by her writings proof of remarkable talent. Her career as an actress, for which profession she was care- fully educated, was most brilliantly successful both in England and this country. In 1834 she left the stage and became the wife of Pierce Butler, Esq., of Philadelphia; but in 1845 she returned to England, where she now resides, separated from her husband and her children ; and the influence of these circumstances is traceable through her pro- ductions since. When yet quite young she produced her two dramas, Francis the First and The Star of Seville ; both of which show a range of read- ing and a maturity of mind very remarkable in one of her years. The first was very successful, as may be learned from its having passed through more than ten rapidly consecutive editions. Though better adapted to the stage, it is not stamped with the same originality, nor does it contain so many striking passages, as the second, from which we prefer chiefly to quote. Her smaller poems display poetical genius of a very high order; though many of them, being expressions of indivi- dual feeling, desponding and sadly reminiscent, have not a sufficient comprehensiveness of thought. Her versification is very bold and vigorous, and her rhythm is often melodious beyond any other writer of equal strength. Her sonnets, especially when she forgets herself, are among the finest in our language ; and it is easy to see that, if a more apprehensive faith in the eternal future uplifted her thoughts, those of a personal character would be closely allied to some of Milton's. As it is, she is nobly disdainful of all mawkishness or artificial conceit. She dashes at her main idea with an honest earnestness, which one can scarcely help believing is a principal trait of her character. This, when she writes prose, sometimes becomes the fault of blunt reckless- ness, as may be seen in the random Journal of her residence in this country, which with many home-truths contains many hasty, extrava- (434) FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER. 435 grant censures, alluded to repentingly in her latest volume, A Year of (Jonsohiliiin. While Mrs. Butler resided in this country, she contributed many pieces of great merit to different magazines, &c, most of which being within reach are doubtless so familiar to the reader that their insertion here would be superfluous. They were collected, with others of her poems, in a small volume published by Mr. John Pennington, 1844 ; and having been written and first printed on this side of the Atlantic, belong rather to the class of American poetry. ONE AGE LIKE ANOTHER. (FROM FRANCIS THE FIRST.) * * * I to look on, and criticize as age Ever will do, drawing comparisons 'Twixt that which is, and that which hath been once. MARGARET. Envious comparisons ! say, are they not ? Surely the world alters not every day, That those, who played their parts but some score years Gone by, should cry out, ' How the times are altered !' — I do appeal to thy philosophy; Say, is it so, Chabannes ? CHABANNES. In sober truth, then, in philosophy, Since thus your grace commands, I do believe That at our feet the tide of time flows on In strong and rapid course ; nor is one current Or rippling eddy liker to the rest Than is one age unto its predecessor : Men still are men, the stream is still a stream, Through every change of changeful tide and time ; And 't is, I fear, only our partial eye That lends a brighter sunbeam to the wave On which we launched our own advent'rous bark. 436 FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER THE QUEEN AND DE BOURBON. What if a woman's hand were to bestow Upon the Duke de Bourbon such high honours, To raise him to such state, that grasping man, E'en in his wildest thoughts of mad ambition, Ne'er dreamt of a more glorious pinnacle ? BOURBON. I 'd kiss the lady's hand, an she were fair. But if this world filled up the universe, — If it could gather all the light that lives In every other star, or sun, or world ; If kings could be my subjects, and that I Could call such power and such a world my own, I would not take it from a woman's hand. Fame is my mistress, madam, and my sword The only friend I ever wooed her with. I hate all honours smelling of the distaff, And, by this light, would as lief wear a spindle Hung round my neck, as thank a lady's hand For any favour greater than a kiss. QUEEN. And how, if such a woman loved yon, — how If, while she crowned your proud ambition, she Could crown her own ungovernable passion, And felt that all this earth possessed, and she Could give, were all too little for your love ? Oh good, my lord ! there may be such a woman. bourbon (aside). Amazement ! can it be, sweet Margaret, That she has read our love ? — impossible ! — and yet — That lip ne'er wore so sweet a smile ! — it is, That look is pardon and acceptance ! (Aloud) — Speak ! (He falls at. the Queen's feet.) Madam, in pity speak but one word more, — Who is that woman ? FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER. 437 queen (throwing off her veil). I am that woman. bourbon (starting up). You, by the holy mass ! I scorn your proflers ! — Is there no crimson blush to tell of fame And shrinking womanhood ! Oh shame ! shame! shame! a soldier' s love. Ay. But ere I go, perchance for ever, lady, Unto the land, whose dismal tales of battles, Where thousands strewed the earth, have christened it The Frenchman's grave ; I'd speak of such a theme As chimes with this sad hour, more fitly than Its name gives promise. There's a love, which, born In early days, lives on through silent years, Nor ever shines, but in the hour of sorrow When it shows brightest — like the trembling light Of a pale sunbeam, breaking o'er the face Of the wild waters in their hour of warfare. Thus much forgive ! and trust, in such an hour, I had not said e'en this, but for the hope That when the voice of victory is heard From the far Tuscan valleys, in its swell Should mournful dirges mingle for the dead, And I be one of those who are at rest, You may chance recollect this word, and say, That day, upon the bloody field, there fell One who had loved thee long, and loved thee well. A FAIR AND VIRTUOUS WOMAN. And I marvel, sir, At those who do not feel the majesty, — By heaven ! I'd almost said the holiness, — That circles round a fair and virtuous woman ! 37* 438 FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER. There is a gentle purity that breathes In such a one, mingled with chaste respect, And modest pride oi' her own excellence, — A shrinking nature, that is so adverse To aught unseemly, that I could as soon Forget the sacred love I owe to heaven, As dare, with impure thoughts, to taint the air Inhaled by such a being : than whom, my liege, Heaven cannot look on anything more holy, Or earth be proud of anything more fair. woman's heart. A young maiden's heart Is a rich soil, wherein lie many germs Hid by the cunning hand of nature there To put forth blossoms in their fittest season ; And tho' the love of home first breaks the soil With its embracing tendrils clasping it, Other affections, strong and warm, will grow, While that one fades, as summer's flush of bloom Succeeds the gentle budding of the spring. Maids must be wives, and mothers, to fulfil Th' entire and holiest end of woman's being. CHARITY FOR THE GREAT. CARLOS. Ah, my Estrella ! 'tis not fit we judge Too hardly of our fellows, whose own souls Bear witness hourly to ten thousand frailties Which stand unanswered in the sight of Heaven ; And least of all, should we be prompt to doom Those who upon the precipice of power, Swathed in state trappings, over which they trip,— Run in a path all briery with temptations Still plucking at their skirt as they pass by : FRAN CES KKMBLE BUTLER. 439 A N OLD HOME. CARLOS. I love that dear old home ! My mother lived there Her first sweet marriage years, and last sad widowed ones 5 Somp.t.himr nt* ol d ancestral n ride it. K eens Though fallen from its earlier power and vastness : Marry ! we 're not so wealthy as we were, N"or yet so warlike ; still it holds enough Of ancient strength and state to prompt the. memory To many a " wherefore," and for every answer You shall have stories long and wonderful, Enougli to make a balladmonger's fortune. Old trees do grow around its old grey walls, The fellows of my mouldering grandfathers : Faith ! they do mock us with their young old age, These giant wearers of a thousand summers ! Strange, that the seed we sow should bloom and flourish When we are faded, flower, fruit, and all ; Or, for all things to tend to reproduction, Serving th' eternal purposes of life, Drawing a vigorous sap into their veins From the soil our very bodies fertilise. ESTRELLA. You have left your home that is, for that which will be ; Pray you, some more of that same ancient dwelling. CARLOS. Nay, I have said too much on't; but that there The sunlight seems to my eyes brighter far That wheresoever else. I know the forms Of every tree and mountain, hill and dell ; The waters gurgle forth a tongue I know, — It is my home, it will be thine, Estrella ; And every leafy glade, and shadowy path, Sweet sunny slope, and echo-haunted hollow, Hath heard thy name a thousand, thousand times. 440 FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER, TRUE AND FALSE LOVE. I know the very difference that lies 'Twixt hallowed love and base unholy lust; I know the one is as a golden spur, Urging the spirit to all noblest aims ; The other but a foul and miry pit, O'erthrowing it in midst of its career; I know the one is as a living spring Of virtuous thoughts, true dealings, and brave deeds - Nobler than glory, and more sweet than pleasure, — Richer than wealth, begetter of more excellence Than aught that from this earth corrupt takes birth, Second alone in the fair fruit it bears To the unmixed ore of true devotion : I know that lust is all of this, spelt backwards ; Fouler than shame, and bitterer than sorrow, More loathly than most abject penury — Nor hath it fruit or bearing to requite it, Save sick satiety and good men's scorn. He that doth serve true love I love and honour; And he that is lust's slave, I do despise, Though he were twenty times the King of Spain ; Wherewith I do commend me to your favours, And leave ye to your parting undisturbed. SADNESS IN JOY. ESTRELLA. Oh, nature knows no other coin for joy Or grief, but melts them both alike in tears : I have a thousand stifling feelings press My heart to bursting; joy to the height of pain Comes like a flood upon my every sense ; Thy voice runs through my frame like the soft touch FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER. 441 Of summer winds o'er trembling harp-strings playing, Thy gentle words and looks that, though I love, I dare not meet, make my soul faint within me. Oh ! Carlos, there is pain in this deep pleasure, And e'en our joys taste of earth's bitter root; Besides, there is a thought that, hand in hand With the sweet promise of our marriage, comes Like a shadow upon sunlight, — I must go From my dear home — the home of all my life, Where I have lived, oh ! such a happy time ! Aurora's tears are not more like each other Than the bright ever-blessed maiden hours That the sun of time has, one by one, dried up. THE JOY OF LOVE. ESTRELLA. O joy ! O joy ! O bright triumphant spirit That in my bosom dost a revel keep ! Life, life and love, may one heart hold ye both, And yet not faint with the surpassing bliss. O that I were a bird to spread my wings And soar, and soar, and pour my ecstasy In a tumultuous stream of gushing song. O that I had a universe to fill With my exceeding happiness. NURSE. Keep it, keep it, girl, thy present stock Won't last thee till for ever. ESTRELLA. It is in vain : like the exulting sun, My light pursues thy wisdom's conquered shadows, And chases them from off my land of hope. See, thou false prophet — see where the bright morning Stands laughing on the threshold of the east — 442 FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER. Where are the clouds thou saidst didst veil the dawn P Look how the waters mirror back again The blushing curtains of Aurora's bed. fresh and fragrant earth, and glorious skies All strewn with rosy clouds — sweet dewy breath Of earliest buds unfolded in the night — And thou — • thou winged spirit of melody, Thou lark that mountest singing to the sun, Fair children of the gold-eyed morn, I hail ye ! There dwells not one sad thought within my breast ; 'T is the broad noon-day there of light and love. The earth rebounds beneath my joyous feet: 1 am a spirit — a spirit of hope and joy ! NURSE. I marvel that my lord has not returned. ESTRELLA. He has gone riding forth to meet my love, — My love, O brighter than the dawning day, And sweeter than the breath of evening violets, Glorious as victory, and fair as truth, Art thou, my love, my lord, my husband! DESPAIR FEARLESS. RODRIQUEZ. How fares it, lady ? ESTRELLA. Passing strong and well. When the sap's in the bough, and the green leaves Shoot forth, and shake in the evening wind in spring, The lightning may burn up the sprouting tree, And blast its healthful life ; but look, good father, Didst ever mark a sapless, leafless witherling, That stands all shrivelled in the bosky dells, Mocking the summer with its barrenness ? Think'st thou that blighted thing fears any storm, FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER. 443 Or dreads the bolt that makes its forest brothers Writhe their green, trembling arms ? — Go to — 'tis past. YOUTH CLINGING TO LIFE. CARLOS. Good holy father, I strive in vain : my thoughts, awhile upborne Upon the heavenward wings of thy devotion, Anchor beyond the dark abysm of death ; But soon a thousand fleshly monitors Beckon them back with weak and earthly promptings. Thou say'st 't is blest to die in penitence, And yet I feel 'tis sad to die in youth. Ere life has had its share, death claims the whole — Ere toil of war and manly enterprise Have worn these sinews weary, they must rest, Rest in the dust. I bring not to the grave Age and disease, a living carrion, But healthful limbs, upon whose lusty strength The loathsome worm before his time must banquet : The blood within my veins is not baked up With sullen spleen or frozen o'er with eld, It flows a strong, warm, rapid, living tide, And I must pour it out upon a scaffold. SONG. Never, oh never more! shall I behold Thy form so fair : Or loosen from its braids the rippling gold Of thy long hair. Never, oh never more ! shall I be blest By thy voice low, Or kiss, while thou art sleeping on my breast, Thy marble brow. 444 FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER. Never, oh never more ! shall I inhale Thy fragrant sighs, Or gaze, with fainting soul, upon the veil Of thy bright eyes. UPON A BRANCH OF FLOWERING ACACIA. The blossoms hang again upon the tree, As when with their sweet breath they greeted me Against my casement, on that sunny morn, When thou, first blossom of my spring, wast born, And as I lay, panting from the fierce strife With death and agony that won thy life, Their snowy clusters hung on their brown bough, E'en as upon my breast, my May-bud, thou. They seem to me thy sisters, Oh, my child ! And now the air, full of their fragrance mild, Recalls that hour; a tenfold agony Pulls at my heart-strings, as I think of thee. Was it in vain ! Oh, was it all in vain ! That night of hope, of terror, and of pain, When from the shadowy boundaries of death, I brought thee safely, breathing living breath Upon my heart — it was a holy shrine, Full of God's praise — they laid thee, treasure mine .' And from its tender depths the blue heaven smiled, And the white blossoms bowed to thee, my child, And solemn joy of a new life was spread, Like a mysterious halo round that bed. And now how is it, since eleven years Have steeped that memory in bitterest tears ? Alone, heart-broken, on a distant shore, Thy childless mother sits lamenting o'er Flowers which the spring calls from this foreign earth, Thy twins, that crowned the morning of thy birth. FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER 445 How is it with thee — lost — lost — precious one ! In thy fresh spring-time growing up alone ? What warmth unfolds thee? — what sweet dews are shed, Like love and patience over thy young head ? What holy springs feed thy deep inner life ? What shelters thee from passion's deadly strife ? What guards thy growth, straight, strong, and full and free, Lovely and glorious, oh, my fair young tree ? G ot l — Father — thou — who by this awful fate Hast lopped and stripped, and left me desolate ! In the dark bitter floods that o'er my soul Their billows of despair triumphant roll. Let me not be o'erwhelmed ! — Oh, they are thine, These jewels of my life — not mine — not mine ! So keep them, that the blossoms of their youth Shall, in a gracious growth of love and truth , With an abundant harvest honour Thee : And bless the blight which Thou hast sent on me ; Withering and blasting, tho' it seem to fall, Let it not, oh, my Father ! drink up all My spirit's sap — so from this fate shall grow The palm branch for my hand and for my brow, With which, a hopeful pilgrim, I may tread The shadowy path where rest awhile the dead, Ere they rise up, a glorious company, To find their lost ones, and to worship Thee ! IMPROMPTU. Sorrow and sin, and suffering and strife, Have been cast in the waters of my life ; And they have sunk deep down to the well-head, And all that flows thence is embittered. Yet still the fountain up towards Heaven springs, And still the brook where'er it wanders sings ; 38 446 FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER. And still where'er it hath found leave to rest, The blessed sun looks down into its breast ; And it reflects, as in a mirror lair, The image of all beauty shining there. TRANSLATION OF A SICILIAN SONG. I planted in my heart one seed of love, Watered with tears and watched with sleepless care It grew — and when I looked that it should prove A gracious tree, and blessed harvests bear, Blossom nor fruit was there to crown my pain, Tears, cares, and labour, all had been in vain ; And yet I dare not pluck it from my heart, Lest with the deep-struck root my life depart. GENIUS AND LOVE. Genius and Love together stood At break of day beside clear fountains, In gardens hedged with laurel wood, Screened by a wall of purple mountains ; As hand in hand they smiling strayed, Love twined a wreath of perfect roses On Genius' brow, "And thus," he said, " My soul on thy bright soul reposes." And round and round they joyous flew, On rapid now, now lingering pinion, And blissful Love ne'er weary grew Of measuring o'er his bright dominion. Anon they rested from their flight, And thro' the fringes of clear water, All rainbow-touched Love chased a sprite, The silver Naiad's snowy daughter, While Genius lay with flashing eyes, Looking into the distant skies. FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER. 447 Love paused and said, " What dost thou see ?" " The far-off shining of the sea — Say, wilt thou thither fly with me?" " Is there a home by the v/ild flood ? Ah, leave we not our pleasant wood !" But suddenly, with eager wings, Towards his desire Genius springs; So strong his flight, the rosy crown At Love's sad feet fell broken down, And lay beside him where he sate, Waiting the coming of his mate : And he returned all gloriously, From the foam-caverns of the sea, And brought strange heaps of shining treasure To Love, who prized beyond all measure His mere return : — And now his sight, Swift as the eagle's sunward flight, Rested upon the mountain's height — " Look ! wilt thou thither with me fly, Dear Love?" — he cried; and rapidly Beat with his golden wings the air. « Is there a home for us up there ? What seek'st thou on the mountain's brow ?" "To see the wide world lie below." So he swept thither like the wind, And Love remained dismayed behind : And now a spirit of the air Garlands of noble amaranth bare To the Love god beside the fountain, And spake — " Lo ! Genius from the mountain Sends thee, dear Love, eternal flowers, To deck thy pleasant myrtle bowers." " Ah !" answered Love, despondingly, "Sweet roses would have done for me; 448 FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER. Look, they grow here upon the ground, Close to our very home, all round, And morn and even may be found — When comes he back ?" " Into the sky I saw him from the mountain fly Higher and higher towards the sun." Love sighed, " The day must soon be done, And evening shall the wanderer bring, With sated soul and weary wing." Love knew not tbat bold Genius' flight Had passed the realms of day and night, Till, from the blue a glorious crown Of starry light was towards him thrown; He saw th' immortal circlet burn, And knew Ids mate would ne'er return : He gathered up the rosy wreath, With withered leaves, and faint sweet breath, And turning to the dark'ning skies The tender longing of his eyes, He bitterly began to weep, And wept himself at last to sleep. THE IDEAL. Thou shalt behold it once, and once believe Thou may'st possess it — Love shall make the dream, Impossible and glorious, palpable seem, And with the bliss thy soul awhile deceive — When from that trance thou wakest, never more On earth hope for it, or thy life is o'er; That one approach of the Divinity Is but the pledge of thy affinity. That lovely vision shall not be renewed, Though thro' all forms of being close pursued; The light must pass into the heavens above thee, Thy polar star, to warn and lead and move thee. FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER. 449 If thou seek lower for it thou shalt follow A fatal marsh-fire, fleeting, false, and hollow; Unto the glorious truth thou shalt not soar, But sink in darkness down for evermore. Not to behold it once is not to live, But to possess it is not life's to give. SONNET. If there were any power in human love, Or in th' intensest longing of the heart, Then should the oceans and the lands that part Ye from my sight all unprevailing prove, Then should the yearning of my bosom bring Ye here, thro' space and distance infinite; And life 'gainst love should be a baffled thing, And circumstance 'gainst will lose all its might Shall not a childless mother's misery Conjure the earth with such a potent spell — ■ A charm so desperate — as to compel Nature to yield to her great agony ? Can I not think of ye till ye arise, Alive, alive, before my very eyes ? PAST HOURS. Two angels have them in their keeping. He that beside the deep vaults of the past Stands to receive the treasures, that with weeping And lamentation into them men cast, Forgetting that alone they hold that fast Which to his marble store-house they commit; And He, that spirit bright and terrible, Who at the feet of God doth thoughtful sit, Upon whose scroll, in lines of flame are writ Each hour of every day of those who dwell 38* 2d 450 FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER. Upon this earth : he hath those days and hours, Which, as they smiled on us, we counted ours ; And who, when that great history appears, Shall make us answer, as if we were theirs LOOK UP! Raise it to Heaven, when thine eye fills with tears, For only in a watery sky appears The bow of light ; and from th' invisible skies Hope's glory shines not, save thro' weeping eyes. YOUTH AND AGE. Youth with swift feet walks onward in the way, The land of joy lies all before his eyes ; Age, stumbling, lingers slower day by day, Still looking back, for it behind him lies. TO PIUS IX. It may be that the stone which thou art heaving From off thy people's neck shall fall and crush thee ; It may be that the sudden flood shall push thee From off the rock, whence, prophet-like, believing In God's great future, thou dost set it free ; Yet heave it, heave it, Heaven high, nor fear To be o'erwhelmed in the first wild career Of those long prisoned tides of liberty. That stone which thou hast lifted from the heart Of a whole nation shall become to thee A glorious monument, such as no art E'er piled above a mortal memory : Falling beneath it, thou shalt have a tomb That shall make low the loftiest dome in Rome. FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER. 451 SONNET. Blaspheme not thou thy sacred life, nor turn O'er joys that God hath for a season lent, Perchance to try thy spirit, and its bent, Effeminate soul and base ! weakly to mourn. There lies no desert in the land of life, For e'en that tract that barrennest doth seem, Laboured of thee in faith and hope, shall teem With heavenly harvests and rich gatherings, rife. Haply no more, music and mirth and love, And glorious things of old and younger art, Shall of thy days make one perpetual feast, But when these bright companions all depart, I Lay thou thy head upon the ample breast ' Of Hope, and thou shalt hear the angels sing above. DEPARTING. Pour we libations to the father, Jove, And bid him watch propitious o'er our way; Pile on the household altar fragrant wreaths, And to th' auspicious Lares bid farewell, Beneath whose guardianship we have abode. Blest be the threshold over which we pass, Turning again with hands, devout uplifted ; Blest be the roof-tree, and the hearth it shelters ; Blest be the going forth and coming home Of those who dwell here ; blest their rising up, And blest their lying down to holy slumber; Blest be the married love, sacred and chaste ; Blest be the children's head, the mother's heart, The father's hope. Reach down the wanderer's staff, — Tie on the sandals on the traveller's feet : The wan-eyed morn weeps in the watery east : Gird up the loins, and let us now depart. ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. (MRS. BROWNING.) The poems of this lady are marked with strength of beauty and beauty of strength. She is deeply read, being familiar with the original of the great ancients (the Greek dramatists having been her particular study), and with the more attractive of the Christian fathers. Her trans- lation of the untranslatable Prometheus Bound of ./Eschylus received high praise as a worthy attempt; and her various writings show that she has drunk true inspiration from the fountain to which she has so often resorted with the graceful vase of her natural genius. Miss Bar- rett is singularly bold and adventurous. Her wing carries her, without faltering at their obscurity, into the cloud and the mist, where not sel- dom we fail to follow her, but are tempted, while we admire the honesty of her enthusiasm, to believe that she utters what she herself has but dimly perceived. Much of this, however, arises from her dis- dain of carefulness. Her lines are often rude, her rhymes forced, from impatience rather than affectation ; and for the same reason, she falls into the kindred fault of verboseness, which is always obscure. She forgets the advice which Aspasia gave a young poet, " to sow with the hand, and not with the bag." Her Greek studies should have taught her more sculptor-like finish and dignity ; but the glowing, generous im- pulses of her woman's heart are too much for the discipline of the classics. Hence it Is that we like her less as a scholar than as a woman ; for then she compels our sympathy with her high religious faith, her love of children, her delight in the graceful and beautiful, her revelations of feminine feeling, her sorrow over the suffering, and her indignation against the oppressor. It is easy to see, from the melody of rhythm in "Covvper's Grave," and a few shorter pieces, that her faults spring not from inability to avoid them, if she would. Her ear, like that of Tennyson (whom she resembles more than any other poet), thirsts for a refrain ; and like him, she indulges it to the weariness of her reader. Her sonnets, though complete in measure, are more like fragments, or unfinished outlines; but not a few of them are full of vigour. Her verses must be recited ; none of them could be sung. There is scarcely anything in the language more exquisitely natural (452) ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 453 than the ballad of The Swan's Nest among the Reeds, which she playfully calls a " romance ;". and we may regret that she has not writ- ten more in the same delicious strain. As it is, we would scarcely take the bays from her muse-like head, but love her better when she herself is content to replace it by tiie " simple myrtle," or the wild-flower garland from the meadows and hedge-rows of her native England. The thyme of Hymettus is not so sweet in her fair hands, as the daisy, the cowslip, the violet, or the porch-encircling brier, no unfit emblem of love shedding sweetness amidst the thorns of daily life. Though we have spoken of this accomplished lady as Miss Barrett, because by that name our readers know her best, she has recently been married to Mr. Robert Browning, author of Paracelsus, Bells and Pomegranates, &c. Her writings which have reached us are: Pro- metheus Bound and Miscellaneous Poems, 1833; The Seraphim and other Poems, 1838 ; and The Drama of Exile and other Poems, 1844. INANIMATE CREATURES. (FKOM THE SERAPHIM.) O meek, insensate things ! O congregated matters who inherit ! Instead of motive powers, Impulsions God-supplied — Instead of vital spirit, A clear informing beauty — Instead of creature duty, A motion calm as rest ! Lights ! without feet or wings, In golden courses sliding ! Broad glooms ! 'neath masses, hiding, Whose lustrous heart away was prest Into the argent stars ! Ye crystal, nrmamental bars, That hold the skyey waters free From tide or tempest's ecstasy ! 454 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. Airs universal ! thunders lorn, That wait your lightning in cloud-cave Hewn out by the winds! O brave And subtle Elements ! the Holy- Hath charged me by your voice with folly/ LOVE OF THE REDEEMED TO GOD. (FROM THE SAME.) Ador. Do we love not ? Zerah. Yea ! But not as man shall '. not with life for death New-throbbing through the startled Being ! not With strange astonished smiles, that ever may Gush passionate like tears, and fill their place ! Nor yet with speechless memories of what Earth's winters were, deepening th' eternal green Of every heavenly palm, Whose windless shadeless calm Moves only at the breath of the Unseen ! Oh! not with this blood on us — and this face, — Still, haply, pale with sorrow that it bore In our behalf, and tender evermore With nature all our own, — toward us gazing ! — For yet with these forgiving hands upraising Their unreproachful wounds, alone to bless ! Alas, Creator ! shall we love Thee less Than mortals shall ? Ador. Amen ! so let it be ! We love in our proportion — to the bound Thine infinite, our finite, set around, And that is finitely, — Thou, infinite And worthy infinite love ! And our delight Is watching the dear love poured out to Thee, * "His angels He charged with folly." — Job iv. verse 18. ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 455 From ever fuller chalice. Blessed they, Who love Thee more than we do ! blessed we, Beholding that out-loving lovingness, And winning in the sight, a double bliss, For all so lost in love's supremacy ! The bliss is better ! only on the sad Cold earth, there are who say It seemeth better to be great than glad. The bliss is better ! Love Him more, O man, Than sinless seraphs can. the sleeping babe. (from isobel's child.) 'T is aye a solemn thing to me To look upon a babe that sleeps — Wearing in its spirit-deeps The unrevealed mystery Of its Adam's taint and woe, Which, when they revealed be, Will not let it slumber so ! Lying new in life beneath The shadow of the coming death, With that soft low quiet breath, As if it felt the sun ! — Knowing all things by their blooms, Not their roots ! — yea ! — sun and sky, Only by the warmth that comes Out of each ! — earth, only by The pleasant hues that o'er it run ! — And human love, by drops of sweet White nourishment still hanging round The little mouth so slumber-bound . — All which broken sentiency 456 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT Will gather and unite and climb To an immortality Good or evil, each sublime, Through life and death to life again ! — O little lids, now closed fast ! Must ye learn to drop at last Our large and burning tears ? — O warm quick body ! must thou lie, When is done the round of years, Bare of all the joy and pain, Dust in dust — thy place upgiving To creeping worms in sentient living? — O small frail being ! wilt thou stand At God's right hand, — Lifting up those sleeping eyes, Dilated by sublimest destinies, In endless waking ? Thrones and Seraphim, Through the long ranks of their solemnities, Sunning thee with calm looks of Heaven's surprise- Thy look alone on Him ? — ■ THE MOTHER'S PRAYER. (from the same.) "'Dear Lord, dear Lord!" She aye had prayed — (the heavenly word, Broken by an earthly sigh !) " Thou, who didst not erst deny The mother-joy to Mary mild Blessed in the blessed child — Hearkening in meek babyhood Her cradle-hymn, albeit used To all that music interfused In breasts of angels high and gdod ! ELIZABETH B . BARRETT. 457 Oh, take not, Lord, my babe away — Oh, take not to thy songful heaven, The pretty baby thou hast given ; Or ere that I have seen him play Around his father's knees, and known That he knew how my love hath gone From all the world to him ! And how that I shall shiver, dim In the sunshine, thinking e'er The grave-grass keeps it from his fair Still cheeks ! and feel at every tread His little body which is dead And hidden in the turfy fold, Doth make the whole warm earth a'cold ! God ! I am so young, so young — 1 am not used to tears at nights Instead of slumber — nor to prayer With shaken lips and hands out-wrung ! Thou knowest all my prayings were I bless thee, God, for past delights — Thank God !' I am not used to bear Hard thoughts of death ! The earth doth cover No face from me of friend or lover ! And must the first who teacheth me The form of shrouds and funerals, be Mine own first-born-beloved ? he Who taught me first this mother-love ? Dear Lord, who spreadest out above Thy loving pierced hands to meet All lifted hearts with blessing sweet, — Pierce not my heart, my tender heart, Thou madest tender! Tbou who art So happy in thy heaven alway, Take not mine only bliss away !" 39 458 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. THE CHILD'S ANSWER. (FROM THE SAME.) " O mother, mother ! loose thy prayer .' Christ's name hath made it strong ! It bindeth me, it holdeth me With its most loving cruelty, From floating my new soul along The blessed heavenly air ! It bindeth me, it holdeth me In all this dark, upon this dull Low earth, by only weepers trod ! — It bindeth me, it holdeth me ! — Mine angel looketh sorrowful Upon the face of God. " Mother, mother ! can I dream Beneath your earthly trees ? I had a vision and a gleam — I heard a sound more sweet than these When lifted by the wind ! Did you see the Dove with wings Overdropt with glisterings From a sunless light behind Falling on mine heart from sky, Soft as mother's kiss, until I seemed to leap, and yet was still ? Saw you how his love-large eye Looked on me mystic calms, Until the power of his divine Vision was indrawn to mine ? " Oh ! the dream within the dream ! I saw celestial places even ! Oh ! the high and vista'd palms, ELIZABETH B . BARRETT. 459 Making finites of delight Through the heavenly infinite — Lifting up their green still tops To the heaven of Heaven ! Oh ! the sweet life-tree that drops Shade like light across the river Glorified in its for ever Flowing from the Throne ! Oh ! the shining holinesses Of the thousand, thousand faces God-sunned by the throned One ! Overspread with such a love That though I saw them turned above, Each loving seemed for also me ! And, oh! th' Unspeakable! the He, — The manifest in secrecies, Yet of mine own heart partaker ! With the overcoming look Of one who hath been once forsook, And blesseth the forsaker! Mother, mother, let me go Toward the face that looketh so ! Through the mystic living Four Whose are inward outward eyes Dark with light of mysteries, And the restless evermore "Holy holy" — through the crowned Stately elders white around — Through the sworded Seraphim — Suffer me to go to Him ! " Is your wisdom very wise, Mothec, on the narrow earth ? Very happy, very worth That I should stay to learn ? Are these air-corrupting sighs 460 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. Fashioned by unlearned breath ? Do the students' lamps that burn All night, illumine death ? Mother ! albeit this be so, Loose thy prayer, and let me go Where that bright chief angel stands Apart from all his brother bands, Too glad for smiling ! having bent In angelic wilderment O'er the depths of God, and brought Reeling, thence, one only thought To fill his whole eternity ! He the teacher is for me ! — He can teach what I would know — Mother, mother, let me go ! — Can your poet make an Eden No winter will undo ? And light a starry fire, in heeding His hearth's is burning too ? Drown in music, earthly din ? — And keep his own wild soul within The law of his own harmony ? — Mother ! albeit this be so, Let me to mine Heaven go ! A little harp me waits thereby — A harp whose strings are golden all, And tuned to music spherical, Hanging on the green life-tree, Where no willows ever be. Shall I miss that harp of mine ? Mother, no! — the Eye divine Turned upon it, makes it shine — And when I touch it, poems sweet Like separate souls shall fly from it, Each to an immortal fytte ! ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 461 We shall all be poets there, Gazing on the chiefest Fair ! " And love ! earth's love ! and can we love Fixedly where all things move ? Can the sinning love each other ? Mother, mother, I tremble in thy close embrace — I feel thy tears adown my face — Thy prayers do keep me out of bliss — O dreary earthly love ! Loose thy prayer, and let me go To the place that loving is, Yet not sad ! and when is given Escape to thee from this below, Thou shalt see me that I wait For thee at the happy gate ; And silence shall be up in heaven, To hear our meeting kiss !" THE CITY. (FROM THE SOUL'S TRAVELLING. I dwell amid the city. The great humanity which beats Its life along the stony streets, Like a strong unsunned river In a self-made course, is ever Rolling on, rolling on ! — I sit and hear it as it rolls, That flow of souls! The infinite tendencies, In the finite, chafed and pent, — ■ In the finite, turbulent ! — The long drear monotone, 39 46'2 ELIZABETH B. BAREETT. Made of many tones that rise Eacli to each as contraries ! — The rich man's ambling steeds — Lolling their necks as the chariot comes With its inward gleam of the eddying plumes! — The poor man's abject needs — The feet that wearily, wearily roam, Unquickened by thoughts of the fire at home — The cry of the babe unheard of its mother, Though it lie on her breast, while she thinks of the other Laid yesterday in tomb ! — The whine of voices that have made Their own grief's sacredness a trade — The curse that ringeth hollowly The crime against the misery — The haggling talk — the organ's grinding — The grinder's face being o'er it leant, Most vacant even of woe, — While the children's hearts leap so At the merry music's winding! — ■ The rapid pace of the business-men Whose eyes do glitter cold, As still they saw the gold ! — The funeral's long slow train. Plumed black, beside Many a house where the rioters laugh And count the beakers they shall quaff At the morrow's festivals — Many a house where sits a bride Trying the morrow's coronals, With a red blush, even to-day! — Slowlv creep the funerals, — As none should hear the noise and say The living, the living, must go away To multiply the dead ! ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 463 Hark ! an upward shout is sent ! In grave strong joy from tower to steeple The bells ring out — The trumpets sound, the people shout, The young Queen goes to her parliament! — She turneth round her large blue eyes, More bright with childish memories Than royal hopes, upon the people — On either side she bows her head Lowly, with a Queenly grace, And smile most trusting-innocent, As if she smiled to her mother ! The thousands press before each other To bless her to her face — And booms the deep majestic voice Through trump and drum — " May the Queen rejoice In the people's liberties !" — I dwell amid the city, And hear the flow of souls ! I do not hear the several contraries — I do not hear the separate tone that rolls In act or speech, For pomp or trade, for merrymake or folly — I hear the confluence and sum of each, And that is melancholy ! — Thy voice is a complaint, O crowned city, The blue sky covering thee, like God's great pity ! — THE MEDIATOR. (a hymn.) How high Thou art ! our songs can own No music Thou couldst stoop to hear ! But still the Son's expiring groan Is vocal in the Father's ear. 464 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. How pure Thou art ! our hands are dyed With curses, red with murder's hue — But He that stretched His hands to hide The sins that pierced them from thy view. How strong Thou art ! we tremble lest The thunders of thine arm be moved — But He is lying on thy breast, And thou must clasp thy best Beloved ! How kind thou art ! Thou didst not choose To joy in Him for ever so ; But that embrace thou wilt not lose For vengeance, didst for love forego ! High God, and pure, and strong, and kind ! The low, the foid, the feeble, spare ! Thy brightness in His face we find — ■ Behold our darkness only there ! THE PET-NAME. the name Which from their lips seemed a caress. Miss Mitform s Dramatic Scenes. I have a name, a little name, Uncadenced for the ear ; Unhonoured by ancestral claim, Unsanctified by prayer and psalm The solemn font anear. It never did to pages wove For gay romaunt, belong : It never dedicate did move As ' Sacharissa,' unto love — ' Orinda,' unto song. ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 465 Though I write books, it will be read Upon the leaves of none ; And afterward, when I am dead, Will ne'er be graved for sight or tread Across my funeral stone. Whoever chanceth it to call, May chance your smile to win ; — Nay, do not smile ! mine eyelids fall Over mine eyes, and feel withal The sudden tears within ! Is there a leaf that greenly grows Where summer meadows bloom, But gathereth the winter snows, And changeth to the hue of those, If lasting till they come ? Is there a word, or jest, or game, But time encrusteth round With sad associates thoughts the same ? And so to me my very name Assumes a mournful sound. My brother gave that name to me When we were children twain; When names acquired baptismally Were hard to utter, as to see That life had any pain. No shade was on us then, save one Of chestnuts from the hill — And through the word our laugh did run As part thereof! The mirth being done, He calls me by it still ! 2 E 466 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. Nay, do not smile ! I hear in it What none of you can hear ! The talk upon the willow seat, The bird and wind that did repeat Around, our human cheer ! I hear the birthday's noisy bliss, My sister's woodland glee — My father's praise I did not miss, What time he stooped down to kiss The poet at his knee — And voices — which to name me, aye Most tender tones were keeping! To some, I never more can say An answer, till God wipes away In heaven, these drops of weeping ! My name to me a sadness wears — No murmurs cross my mind — Now God be thanked for these thick tears, Which show, of those departed years, Sweet memories left behind ! Now God be thanked for years enwrought With love which softens yet ; Now God be thanked for every thought Which is so tender, it hath caught Earth's guerdon of regret ! Earth may embitter, not remove, The love divinely given : And e'en that mortal grief shall prove The immortality of love, And lead us nearer Heaven ! ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 467 THE WAIL OF THE SPIRIT OF EARTH. (FROM THE DRAMA OF EXILE.) I was so beautiful, so beautiful, My joy stood up within me bold and glad, To answer God ; and when His work was full, To "very good," responded " very glad !" Filtered through roses, did the light enclose me ; And bunches of the grape swang blue across me — Yet I wail! ***** my deep waters, cataract and flood, — What wordless triumph did your voices render ! mountain-summits, where the angels stood, And shook from head and wing thick dews of splendour; How with a holy quiet, did your Earthy Accept that Heavenly — knowing ye were worthy! Yet I wail! 1 wail, I wail ! Now hear my charge to-day, Thou man, thou woman, marked as the misdoers, By God's sword at your backs ! I lent my clay To make your bodies which had grown more flowers : And now, in change for what I lent, ye give me The thorn to vex, the tempest-fire to cleave me — And I wail ! I wail, I wail ! Do ye hear that I wail ? I had no part in your transgression — none! My roses on the bough did bud not pale — My rivers did not loiter in the sun. J was obedient. Wherefore, in my centre, Do I thrill at this curse of death and winter ! — And I wail ! 468 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. I feel your steps, O wandering sinners, strike A sense of death to me, and undug graves ! The heart of earth, once calm, is trembling, like The ragged foam along the ocean-waves : The restless earthquakes rock against each other ; — The elements moan 'round me — "Mother, mother" And I wail! CHORUS AFTER THE PROMISE. (FROM THE SAME.) Exiled human creatures, Let your hope grow larger! Larger grows the vision Of the new delight. From this chain of Nature's, God is the Discharger; And the Actual's prison Opens to your sight. Calm the stars and golden, In a light exceeding ; What their rays have measured, Let your hearts fulfil ! These are stars beholden By your eyes in Eden ; Yet, across the desert, See them shining still. Future joy and far light Working such relations, — Hear us singing gently — Exiled is not lost ! God, above the starlight, God above the patience, Shall at last present ye Guerdons worth the cost. ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 469 Patiently enduring-, Painfully surrounded, Listen how we love you — Hope the uttermost — Waiting for that curing Which exalts the wounded, Hear us sing above you — Exiled, but not lost ! (The stars shine on brightly, while Adam and Ete pursue their way into the far wilderness. There is a sound through the silence, as of the falling tears of an angel.') THE LADY'S YES. u Yes !" I answered you last night ; " No !" this morning, Sir, 1 say ! Colours, seen by candle-light, Will not look the same by day. When the tabors played their best, Lamps above, and laughs be*ow — Love me sounded like a jest, Fit for Yes or fit for No! Call me false, or call me free — Vow, whatever light may shine, No man on thy face shall see Any grief for change on mine. Yet the sin is on us both — Time to dance is not to woo — Wooer light makes fickle troth — Scorn of me recoils on you ! Learn to win a lady's faith Nobly, as the thing is high ; Bravely, as for life and death — With a loyal gravity. 40 470 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. Lead her from the festive boards. Point her to the starry skies, Guard her, by your truthful words, Pure from courtship's flatteries. By your truth she shall be true — Ever true as wives of yore — And her Fes, once said to you, Shall be Yes for evermore. A CHILD ASLEEP. How he sleepeth ! having drunken Weary childhood's maudragore, From his pretty eyes have sunken Pleasures, to make room for more — Sleeping near the withered nosegay, which he pulled the day before. Nosegays! leave them for the waking! Throw them earthward where they grew ; Dim are such beside the breaking Amaranths he looks unto — Folded eyes see brighter colours than the open ever do. Heaven-flowers, rayed by shadows golden From the palms they sprang beneath, Now perhaps divinely holden, Swing against him in a wreath — We may think so from the quickening of his bloom and of his breath. Vision unto vision calleth, While the young child dreameth on ; Fair, O dreamer, thee befalleth With the glory thou hast won ! Darker wert thou in the garden, yestermorn, by summer sun. ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 471 We should see the spirits ringing Round thee, — were the clouds away! 'Tis the child-heart draws them, singing In the silent-seeming clay — Singing ! — Stars that seem the mutest, go in music all the way As the moths around a taper, As the bees around a rose, As at sunset, many a vapour, — So the spirits group and close Round about a holy childhood, as if drinking its repose. Shapes of brightness overlean thee, With their diadems of youth Striking on thy ringlets sheenly, — While thou smilest, . . not in sooth Thy smile, . . but the overfair one, dropt from some ethereal mouth. Haply it is angels' duty, During slumber, shade by shade To fine down this childish beauty To the thing it must be made, Ere the world shall bring it praises, or the tomb shall see it fade. Softly, softly ! make no noises ! Now he lieth dead and dumb — Now he hears the angels' voices Folding silence in the room — Now he muses deep the meaning of the Heaven-words as they come. Speak not, he is consecrated — Breathe no breath across his eyes ; Lifted up and separated On the hand of God he lies, In a sweetness beyond touching, — held in cloistral sanctities. 472 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. Could ye bless him — father — mother? Bless the dimple in his cheek ? Dare ye look at one another, And the benediction speak ? Would ye not break out in weeping, and confess yourselves too weak ? He is harmless — ye are sinful, — Ye are troubled, — he, at ease! From his slumber, virtue winful Floweth outward with increase — Dare not bless him ! but be blessed by his peace — and go in peace. CATARINA TO CAMOENS. DYING IN HIS ABSENCE ABROAD, AND REFERRING TO THE POEM IN WHICH HE RECORDED THE SWEETNESS OF HER EYES. On the door you will not enter, I have gazed too long — adieu! Hope withdraws her peradventure — ■ Death is near me, — and not you ! Come, O lover ! Close and cover These poor eyes, you called, I ween, ' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' When I heard you sing that burden In my vernal days and bowers, Other praises disregarding, I but hearkened that of yours, — Only saying In heart-playing, ' Blessed eyes mine eyes have been, If the sweetest, his have seen!' ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. But all changeth! At this vesper, Cold the sun shines down the door ! If you stood there, would you whisper 'Love, I love you,' as before, — Death pervading Now, and shading Eyes you sang of, that yestreen, As the sweetest, ever seen ? Yes ! I think, were you beside them, Near the bed I die upon, — Though their beauty you denied them, As you stood there, looking down, You would truly Call them duly, For the love's sake found therein, — ' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' And if you looked down upon them, And if they looked up to you, All the light which has foregone them Would be gathered back anew! They would truly Be as duly Love-transformed to Beauty's sheen, — 'Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' But, ah me ! you only see me In your thoughts of loving man, Smiling soft perhaps and dreamy Through the wavings of my fan, — And unweeting Go repeating, In your reverie serene, ' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' 40* 473 474 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. While my spirit leans and reaches From my body still and pale, Fain to hear what tender speech is In your love, to help my bale — my poet, Come and show it! Come, of latest love to glean ' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' my poet, O my prophet, When you praised their sweetness so, Did you think, in singing of it, That it might be near to go ? Had you fancies From their glances, That the grave would quickly screen ' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen ?' No reply ! The fountain's warble In the court-yard sounds alone ! As the water to the marble So my heart falls with a moan, From love-sighing To this dying ! Death forerunneth Love, to win ' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' Will you come ? when I 'm departed Where all sweetnesses are hid — When thy voice, my tender-hearted, Will not lift up either lid. Cry, O lover, Love is over ! Cry beneath the Cypress green — ' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. When the angelus is ringing, Near the convent will you walk, And recall the choral singing Which brought angels down our talk? Spirit-shriven I viewed Heaven, Till you smiled — 'Is earth unclean, ' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen ?' When beneath the palace-lattice, You ride slow as you have done, And you see a face there — that is Not the old familiar one, — Will you oftly Murmur softly, ' Here ye watched me morn and e'en, Sweetest eyes, were ever seen !' 475 When the palace ladies sitting Round your gittern, shall have said, ' Poet, sing those verses written For the lady who is dead,' — Will you tremble, Yet dissemble, — Or sing hoarse, with tears between, ' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen ?' Sweetest eyes ! How sweet in flowings, The repeated cadence is ! Though you sang a hundred poems, Still the best one would be this. I can hear it 'Twixt my spirit And the earth-noise, intervene — ■ I Sweetest eyes, were ever seen !' 476 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. But the priest waits for the praying, And the choir are on their knees, — And the soul must pass away in Strains more solemn high than these ! Miserere For the weary — > Oh, no longer for Catrine, ' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen !' Keep my riband ! take and keep it, — I have loosed it from my hair •* Feeling, while you overweep it, Not alone in your despair, — Since with saintly Watch, unfaintly, Out of Heaven shall o'er you lean ' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' But — but now — 'yet unreinoved Up to Heaven, they glisten fast — You may cast away, Beloved, In your future, all my past ; Such old phrases May be praises For some fairer bosom-queen — ; Sweetest eyes, were ever seen !' Eyes of mine, what are ye doing ? Faithless, faithless, — praised amiss, If a tear be of your showing, Drop for any hope of his ! Death hath boldness Besides coldness, If unworthy tears demean ' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' * She left him the riband from her hair. ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 477 I will look out to his future — I will bless it till it shine ! Should he ever be a suitor Unto sweeter eyes than mine, Sunshine gild them, Angels shield them, Whatsoever eyes terrene Be the sweetest his have seen! THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST. So the dreams depart, So the fading phantoms flee, And the sharp reality Now must act its part. Westwoob's ' Beads from a Rosary. Little Ellie sits alone 'Mid the beeches of a meadow, By a stream-side on the grass : And the trees are showering down Doubles of their leaves in shadow, On her shining hair and face. She has thrown her bonnet by ; And her feet she has been dipping In the shallow water's flow — Now she holds them nakedly In her hands, all sleek and dripping, While she rocketh to and fro. Little Ellie sits alone, — And the smile, she softly useth, Fills the silence like a speech ; While she thinks what shall be done, — And the sweetest pleasure, chooseth, For her future within reach ! 178 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. Little Ellie in her smile Chooseth . . . ' I will have a lover, Riding on a steed of steeds ! He shall love me without guile ; And to him I will discover That swan's nest among the reeds. ' And the steed shall be red-roan, And the lover shall be noble, With an eye that takes the breath, — And the lute he plays upon, Shall strike ladies into trouble, As his sword strikes men to death. ' And the steed, it shall be shod All in silver, housed in azure, And the mail shall swim the wind ! And the hoofs along the sod, Shall flash onward in a pleasure, Till the shepherds look behind. ' But my lover will not prize All the glory that he rides in, When he gazes in my face ! He will say, " O Love, thine eyes Build the shrine my soul abides in ; And I kneel here for thy grace." ' Then, ay, then — he shall kneel low,- With the red-roan steed anear him Which shall seem to understand — Till I answer, " Rise, and go ! For the world must love and fear him Whom I gift with heart and hand." ' Then he will arise so pale, I shall feel my own lips tremble With a yes I must not say — ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 479 Nathless, maiden-brave, " Farewell, 1 ' I will utter and dissemble — " Light to-morrow, with to-day." ' Then he will ride through the hills, To the wide world past the river, There to put away all wrong! To make straight distorted wills, And to empty the broad quiver Which the wicked bear along. 'Three times shall a young foot-page Swim the stream, and climb the mountain, And kneel down beside my feet — " Lo ! my master sends this gage, Lady, for thy pity's counting ! What wilt thou exchange for it ?" 4 And the first time, I will send A white rose-bud for a guerdon, — And the second time, a glove ! But the third time — I may bend From my pride, and answer — "Pardon — If he comes to take my love." ' Then the young foot-page will run — Then my lover will ride faster, Till he kneeleth at my knee ! " I am a duke's eldest son ! Thousand serfs do call me master, — But, O Love, I love but thee .'" ' He will kiss me on the mouth Then ; and lead me as a lover, Through the crowds that praise his deeds ! And, when soul-tied by one troth, Unto him I will discover That swan's nest amonjj the reeds.' 480 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. Little Fllie, with her smile Not yet ended, rose up gayh , — Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe — And went homeward, round a mile. Just to see, as she did daily, What more eggs were with the two. Pushing through the elm-tree copse Winding by the stream, light-hearted, Where the osier pathway leads — Past the boughs she stoops — and stops ! Lo ! the wild swan had deserted — And a rat had gnawed the reeds. Ellie went home sad and slow ! If she found the lover ever, With his red-roan steed of steeds, Sooth I know not ! but I know She could show him never — never, That swan's nest among the reeds ! cowper's grave. I will invite thee, from thy envious herse To rise, and 'bout the World thy beams to spread, That we may see there's brightnesse in the dead. Haiiington. It is a place where poets crowned May feel the heart's decaying ! It is a place where happy saints May weep amid their praying — Yet let the grief and humbleness As low as silence languish ; Earth surely now may give her calm To whom she gave her anguish. ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. O poets! from a maniac's tongue Was poured the deathless singing! Christians ! at your cross of hope A hopeless hand was clinging! O men, this man in brotherhood, Your weary paths beguiling, Groaned inly while he taught you peace, And died while ye were smiling! And now, what time ye all may read Through dimming tears his story How discord on the music fell, And darkness on the glory — And how, when, one by one, sweet sounds And wandering lights departed, He wore no less a loving face, Because so broken-hearted. He shall be strong to sanctify The poet's high vocation, And bow the meekest Christian down In meeker adoration : Nor ever shall he be in praise By wise or good forsaken : Named softly, as the household name Of one whom God hath taken ! With sadness that is calm, not gloom, I learn to think upon him; With meekness that is gratefulness, On God, whose heaven hath won him — Who suffered once the madness-cloud Towards his love to blind him ; But gently led the blind along, Where breath and bird could find him; 41 2f 481 482 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. And wrought within his shattered brain Such quick poetic senses, As hills have language for, and stars Harmonious influences ! The pulse of dew upon the grass His own did calmly number ; And silent shadow from the trees Fell o'er him like a slumber. The very world, by God's constraint, From falsehood's chill removing, Its women and its men became Beside him true and loving ! — And timid hares were drawn from woods To share his home caresses, Uplooking to his human eyes, With Sylvan tendernesses. But while in blindness he remained, Unconscious of the guiding, And things provided came without The sweet sense of providing, He testified this solemn truth, Though frenzy desolated, — Nor man nor nature satisfy Whom only God created ! Like a sick child, that knoweth not His mother while she blesses, And droppelh on his burning brow The coolness of her kisses ; That turns his fevered eyes around — " My mother ! where 's my mother ?" — As if such tender words and looks Could come from any other! — ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. The fever gone, with leaps of heart He sees her bending o'er him ; Her face all pale from watchful love, Th' unweary love she bore him — Thus, woke the poet from the dream His life's long fever gave him, Beneath those deep pathetic eyes Which closed in death to save him ! Thus ! oh, not thus ! no type of earth Could image that awaking, Wherein he scarcely heard the chant Of Seraphs round him breaking — Or felt the new immortal throb Of soul from body parted ; But felt those eyes alone, and knew " My Saviour ! not deserted !" Deserted ! who hath dreamt that when The cross in darkness rested, Upon the Victim's hidden face No love was manifested ? What frantic hands outstretched have e'er Th' atoning drops averted — What tears have washed them from the soul — That one should be deserted ? Deserted ! God could separate From His own essence rather : And Adam's sins have swept between The righteous Son and Father — Yea ! once Immanuel's orphaned cry His universe hath shaken — It went up single, echoless, " My God, I am forsaken !" 483 48 4 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. It went up from the Holy's lips Amid his lost creation, That of the lost, no son should use Those words of desolation ; That earth's worst frenzies, marring hope, Should mar not hope's fruition : And I, on Cowper's grave, should see His rapture, in a vision ! THE SLEEP. "He giveth His beloved sleep." — Psalm cxxvii. 2. Of all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward unto souls afar, Along the Psalmist's music deep — Now tell me if that any is, For gift or grace surpassing this — " He giveth His beloved sleep ?" What would we give to our beloved ? The hero's heart, to be unmoved — The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep — The senate's shout to patriot vows — The monarch's crown, to light the brows ?- " He giveth His beloved sleep." What do we give to our beloved ? A little faith, all undisproved — A little dust, to overweep — And bitter memories, to make The whole earth blasted for our sake ! " He giveth His beloved sleep." " Sleep soft, beloved !" we sometimes say, But have no tune to charm away Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep : ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. But never doleful dream again Shall break the happy slumber, when " He giveth His beloved sleep." earth, so full of dreary noises ! O men, with wailing in your voices ! O delved gold, the wailers heap! strife, O curse, that o'er it fall ! God makes a silence through you all, And "giveth His beloved sleep. His dew drops mutely on the hill ; His cloud above it saileth still, Though on its slope men toil and reap More softly than the dew is shed, Or cloud is floated overhead, " He giveth His beloved sleep." Ha ! men may wonder while they scan A living, thinking, feeling man, In such a rest his heart to keep ; But angels say — and through the word 1 ween their blessed smile is heard — " He giveth His beloved sleep !" For me, my heart, that erst did go, Most like a tired child at a show, That sees through tears the juggler's leap, — Would now its wearied vision close, Would childlike on His love repose, Who " giveth His beloved sleep !" And friends! — dear friends! — when it shall be That this low breath is gone from me, And round my bier ye come to weep — Let me, most loving of you all, Say, not a tear must o'er her fall — "He yiveth His beloved sleep!" 41* 486 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT SONNET. Thank God, bless God, all ye who suffer not More grief than ye can weep for. That is well — That is light grieving! lighter, none befel, Since Adam forfeited the primal lot. Tears ! what are tears ? The babe weeps in its cot. The mother singing : at her marriage-bell, The bride weeps : and before the oracle Of high-faned hills the poet hath forgot That moisture on his cheeks. Commend the grace, Mourners, who weep ! Albeit, as some have done, Ye grope tear-blinded, in a desert place, And touch but tombs, — look up! Those tears will run Soon, in long rivers, down the lifted face, And leave the vision clear for stars and sun. SONNET. COMFORT. Speak low to me, my Saviour, low and sweet From out the hallelujahs, sweet and low, Lest I should fear and fall and miss thee so Who art not missed by any that entreat. Speak to ine as to Mary at thy feet — And if no precious gums my hands bestow, Let my tears drop like amber, while 1 go In reach of thy divinest voice complete In humanest affection — thus, in sooth, To lose the sense of losing! As a child, Whose song-bird seeks the wood for evermore, Is sung to in its stead by mother's mouth ; Till, sinking on her breast, love reconciled, He sleeps the faster that he wept before. MISS CHARLOTTE YOUNG. 48' SONNET. EXAGGERATION. We overstate the ills of life, and take Imagination, given us to bring down The choirs of singing angels overshone By God's clear glory, — down our earth to rake The dismal snows instead ; flake following flake, To cover all the corn. We walk upon The shadow of hills across a level thrown, And pant like climbers. Near the alderbrake We sigh so loud, the nightingale within Refuses to sing loud, as else she would. O brothers ! let us leave the shame and sin Of taking vainly in a plaintive mood, The holy name of Grief! — holy herein, That by the grief of One, came all our good. MISS CHARLOTTE YOUNG Is the latest female poet claiming our attention, her first volume, The World's Complaint and other Poems, having just appeared. She gives good promise, her verses exhibiting a graceful ability and an excellent moral tone, as creditable to her heart as her mind. EVERY-DAY HEROES. We speak and we read of the hero's deeds, And envy perchance his fame ; We would tread, like him, some path that leads To gaining a deathless name; And we sigh as our time is vainly spent, " Oh, 't was not for this that I was meant !" 488 MISS CHARLOTTE YOUNG. We feel, with a touch of deep regret, What nothing's, alas ! we 've been ; How like a stagnant pool, as yet, Has been to us Life's stream. There seemed to our souls a warning scut, — ■ •'•Mortal! for this thou wert not meant." Yet we sit and dream of a better day, And idly its coming wait, When, like the hero of poet's lay, We too maybe something great; And still through the mist our spirits grope, For the distant gleam of this better hope. For alas ! while we dream these airy dreams, And sigh for the better afar, We are dwelling on that which only seems, While we slight the truths that are. We are looking for flowers more fair and sweet, While we trample the fairest 'neath our feet. The wearisome, lone, and monotonous lot, Where To-day 's as the day that is gone ; Where To-morrow brings nothing To-day has not, Nor evening the hopes of the morn ; Oh ! even here, in the loneliest hours, Are there lying some fair but neglected flowers. Some being we gaze on from day to day, And tend with a holy care, Lightening the woes in each other's way, Each breathing a mutual prayer. Oh ! here, in the homeliest act or speech, May we to the fame of a hero reach. For when selfish thoughts are for others subdued, And smiles conquer the rising frown, When we love our own in another's good, Oh ! we weave us a deathless crown, MISS CHARLOTTE YOUNG. That many a hero's present or past, With all its glory, has never surpassed. Oh ! did we but see how in smallest things Are beginnings of all that 's great, Life's soil woidd be watered by countless springs, That now 'neath the surface wait. We should feel that when earthward kindly sent, For heroes and heroines all were meant. THE POOR MAN'S FLOWER. Wandering along his weary way, In dirty tatters meanly dressed, A beggar-man one summer-day, Seemed hastening to some place of rest. No smile was on his withered face, It nought but anxious care exprest; Grim Poverty had left its trace, And inly rankled at his breast ; Yet in his coat that weary hour The poor man nursed a cherished flower. 'T was no choice plant in hothouse bred, And guarded with a tender care ; No hand had propped its drooping head, Or shielded it from midnight air ; Yet choicest flowers might fail to bring To their rich owners thoughts as fair, As did that simple, lowly thing, To that unhappy man of care, Who from the hedge-side, free to all, Had plucked himself that blossom small. No flow'ret in a lady's dress, Where all beside is meet and bright, And she, in her own loveliness, Seems but another flower of light, 489 490 MISS CHARLOTTE YOUNG. Has aught so sacred or so dear, So touching to the gazer's sight, As that bright spot amongst the drear, That star amidst the gloom of night ; — The flow' ret plucked by fingers rude, To cheer the beggar's solitude. The simple plucking of that flower Betrayed a tenderness of thought, Ready to find in every hour The kindred sweetness that it sought : A sense of beauty seldom found Where all within is darkly fraught, But often trampled to the ground, And mercilessly set at nought, By those who in their selfish power Treat as the weed what is the flower. Yet brighter days begin to dawn ; The weeds of prejudice and pride, Though slowly, yet are surely drawn, From bosoms where they used to hide : And, thou, poor scorned and withered flower, With wealth and grandeur unallied, Shalt see, ere long, the happy hour, When men, from falseness purified, Shall learn to estimate the worth Of all the toiling 1 sons of earth. THE END. LINDSAY & BLAKISTON PUBLISH THE AMERICAN FEMALE POETS: WITH BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES, BY CAROLINE MAY. AN ELEGANT VOLUME, WITH A HANDSOME VIGNETTE TITLE, AND PORTRAIT OF MRS. OSGOOD, The Literary contents of this work contain copious selections from the writings of Anne Bradstreet, Jane Turell, Anne Eliza Bleecker, Margaretta V. Faugeres, Phillis Wheatley, 3Iercy Warren, Sarah Porter, Sarah VVentworth Morton, Mrs. Little, Maria A. Brooks, Lydia Huntley Sigourney, Anna Maria Wells, Caroline Oil- man, Sarah Josepha Hale, Maria -James, Jessie G. M'Cartee, Mrs. Gray, Eliza Follen, Louisa Jane Hall, Mrs. Swift, Mrs. E. C. Kinney, Marguerite St. Leon Loud, Luella J. Case, Elizaheth Bogart, A. D. Woodhridge, Elizaheth Margaret Chandler, Emma C. Embury, Sarah Helena Whitman, Cynthia Taggart, Elizabeth J. Eames, «&c. &.C. &c. The whole forming a beautiful specimen of the highly cultivated state oi the arts in the United States, as regards the paper, topography, and binding in rich and various styles. EXTRACTS FROM THE PREFACE. One of the most striking characteristics of the present age is the number of female writers, especially in the department of belles-lettres. This is even more true of the United States, than of the old world ; and poetry, which is the lan- guage of the affections, has been freely employed among us to express the emotions of woman's heart. As the rare exotic, costly because of the distance from which it is brought, will often suffer in comparison of beauty and fragrance with the abundant wild flowers of our mea- dows and woodland slopes, so the reader of our present volume, if ruled by an honest taste, will discover in the effu- sions of our gifted countrywomen as much grace of form, and powerful sweetness of thought and feeling, as in the blossoms of woman's genius culled from other lands. LINDSAY & BLAKISTON HAVE JUST PUBLISHED THE WOMEN OF THE SCRIPTURES, EDITED BY THE REV. H. HASTINGS WELD; WITH ORIGINAL LITERARY CONTRIBUTIONS, BY DISTINGUISHED AMERICAN WRITERS: BEAUTIFULLY ILLUSTRATED BY TWELVE SUPERB ENGRAVINGS ON STEEL, BY J. SARTAIN, PHILADELPHIA, FROM ORIGINAL DESIGNS, EXPRESSLY FOR THE WORK, BY T, P. ROSSITER, NEW YORK: INCLUDING Miriam. Hannah, Esther, Eve, Ruth, The Syrophenician Sarah, Queen of Sheba. Martha, Rachel, Shunainite, The Marys. Elegantly Bound in White Calf, Turkey Morocco, and Cloth Extra, with Gilt Edges. PREFACE. The subject of this book entitles it to a high place among illustrated volumes. The execution, literary and artistic, will, we are confident, be found worthy of the theme ; since we have received the assistance of authors best known in the sacred literature of our country, in presenting, in their various important attitudes and relations, the Women of the Scriptures. The contents of the volume were prepared expressly for it, with the exception of the pages from the pen of Mrs. Balfour; and for the republication of her articles, no one who reads them will require an apology. The designs for the engravings are original; and the Publishers trust that in the present volume they have made their best acknowledgment for the favour with which its predecessors have been received. The whole, they believe, will be found no inapt memento of those to whom St. Peter refers the sex for an ensample : " the holy women, in the old time." LINDSAY & BLAKISTON HAVE RECENTLY PUBLISHED, SCENFS IN THE LIFE OF THE SAVIOUR, EY THE POETS AND PAINTERS: CONTATNING MAN? GEMS OF ABT AND GENIUS, ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE SAVIOUR'S LIFE AND PASSION. EDITED BY THE REV. RUFUS GRISWOLD. THE ILLUSTRATIONS, WHICH ARE EXQUISITELY ENGRAVED ON STEEL, BY JOHN SARTAIN, ARE : The Hnly Family, painted hy N. Poussin; The Suvumr. Iiv Paul Delaroche'; Christ by the Well of Sychar, by Emelie Signol; The Daughter of Janus, by Delonue ; Walking on the Sea, by Henry Richter; The Ten Lepers, by A. Vandyke ; Tlie Last Supper, by Benjamin West; The Women at the Sepulchre, by Philip Viet. THE LITERARY CONTENTS, COMPRISING SIXTY-FOUR POEMS, ARE BY Milton, Hemans, Montgomery, Keble, Mrs. Sigourncy, Miss Lan> don, Dale, Willis, Bulnnch, Bethune, JLongfellow, Whittier, Croly, Klopstock, Mrs. Osgood, Pierpont, Crossvvell, and other celebrated Poets of this and other Countries* The volume is richly and beautifully bound in Turkey Morocco, gilt, white calf exira, or embossed cloth, gilt edges, sides and back. We commend this volume to the attention of those who would place a Souvenir in the hands of their friends, to invite them in the purest strains of poetry, and by the eloquence of art, to study the Life of the Saviour. — Christ. Obs. The contents are so arranged as to constitute a Poetical and Pictorial Life of the Saviour, and we can think of no more appropriate gift-book. In typo- graphy, embellishments, and binding, we have recently seen nothing more tasteful and rich. — North American. We like this book, as well for its beauty as for its elevated character, ft is just such an one as is suited, either for a library, or a parlour centre-table ; and no one can arise from its perusal without feeling strongly the sublimity ind enduring character of the Christian religion. — Harrisburg Telegraph. This is truly a splendid volume in all its externals, while its contents are richly worthy of the magnificent style in which they are presented. As illus- trations of the Life and Passion of the Saviour of mankind, it will form an appropriate Souvenir for the season in which we commemorate his coming upon earth. — Neal's Gazette. SCENES IN THE LIVES OF THE APOSTLES ; ILLUSTRATED BY CELEBRATED POETS AND PAINTERS. EDITED DY H. HASTINGS WELD. Eight Illustrations, beautifully Engraved on Steel, by Sartaiu. Die Redeemer, painted by Decaine — Frontis- I Christ's charge to Peter, by Rapli:n-1 . piece; Peter and Julm healing the Lame Man al th Antioch in Syria, by Hardin?— Vignette title; Beautiful Gate uf tlie Temple, b) Raphael, John reproving Herod, by Lk Brun ; Paul before Agrippa, by Sartain j Christ, with his Disciples, weeping over Jerusa- John on the Isle of Putinos, by Decaine lem, by Begas ; THE LITERARY CONTENTS CONSIST OF UPWARDS OF SEVENTY POEMS, BV Bishop Ileber, Lowell, Keble, Hannah F. Gould, Clark, Mrs. llemans, Mrs. Sigourney, Barton, Bryant, Miss Landon, Tap- pan, Pierpont, Longfellow, Miss Davidson, Dale, Cros- well, Percival, Bow ring, and other celebrated Poets. Beautifully bound, in various styles, to match " Scenes in the Life of the Saviour." We do not know where we could find a more elegant and appropriate present for a Christian friend. It will always have value. It is not one of those ephemeral works which are read, looked at, and forgotten. It tells of scenes dear to the hearts of Christians, which must ever find there an abiding place. — Banner of the Cross. Here is truly a beautiful volume, admirable in design, and perfect in its execution. The editor, with a refined taste, and a loving appreciation of Scripture history, has selected some of the best writings of ancient and modern authors ■.. illustration of various scenes in the Lives of the Apostlis, whilst his own facile pen has given us in prose a series of excellent contributions. The lyre of Heber seems to vibrate again as we turn over its pages ; and Keble, Jenner, Cowper, Herrick, Bernard, Barton, and a brillimt host of glowing writers, shine again by the light of Christian truth, and the beaming effulgence of a pure religion. It is an elegant and appropriate volume for a Christmas gift. — Transcript. The exterior is novel and beautiful ; the typography is in the highest style of the art ; and the engravings, nine in number, are among the best efforts of Mr. Sartain. The prose anicles contributed by the editor are well wriueti ; and ihe poetical selections are made with judgment. The volume is a worihy companion of " Scenes in the Life of the Saviour," and both are much more worthy o* Christian patronage than the great mass of annuals. — Presbyterian. The above volumes are among the most elegant specimens from the American press. In neatness and chasteness of execution, they are perhaps unsurpassed. The engravings are of ihe highest order; and illustrate most strikingly, and with great beauty, some of ihe most sublime and the most touching ScrirHure scenes. They also contain some of the richest specimens of Sacred Poetry, whose subject and style are such as deeply to interest ihe imagination, and at the same nme to make the heart better. We hope the Christian's table, at leas!, may be adorned with the volumes above mentioned, and such as these. — New England Puritan. BETHUNE'S POEMS, LINDSAY & BLAKISTON PUBLISH, LAYS OF LOVE AND FAITH, WITH OTHER FUGITIVE POEMS. BY THE REV. G. W . BETHUNE, D.D. This is an elegant Volume, beautifully printed on the finest and whitest paper, and richly bound in various styles. As one arranges in a simple vase A little store of unpretending flowers, So gathered I some records of past hours, And trust them, gentle reader, to thy grace, Nor hope that in my pages thou wilt trace The biilliant proof of high poetic powers; But dear memorials of happy days, When heaven shed blessings on my heart like shower*, Clothing with beauty e'en the desert place; Till I, with thankful gladness in my looks, Turned me to God, sweet nature, loving friends, Christ's little children, well-worn ancient books, The charm of Art, the rapture music sends; And sang away the grief that on man's lot attends. OPINIONS OF TH2 PRESS. We beg leave to express our thanks to the diligent author of these Poems for this additional and highly valuable contribution to the treasures of American literature. The nro"e writings of Dr. Bethune, by their remarkably pure and ehaste language, their deoth and [clearness of thought their force and beauty of illustration, and by their ffi t a id elevated piety, have justly secured to him a place with the very best authors Sf our landlwhose works are destined to exert a wide-spread and most salutary fnfluence on the forming character and expanding mind of our growing republic. Tins volume of his collected poetry, though i. be, as the author observes in his beautiful in rodue or sonnet but the "gathered records of past hours," or the fruit of moments of naus rb us relaxation from more severe labours, may without fear take its place by the "be four best poetic productions; and there are many pieces in it, which, for accuracy of rhvtlun f'r refined sentiment, energy of thought, flowing and lucid ex- nr«K«inn and subduin" pathos, are unsurpassed by any writer. P Sienorlv and in the matters of paper and typography, this is an elegant volume. and so ftris'a fitting casket for the gems it contains-fbr gems these beautiful poerna are of » purest rav serene "-lustrous jewels-ornaments of purest virgin gold Manv hallowed breathings will be found among the poems here collected-all distin- gushed by correct taste and refined feeling, rarely dazzling by gorgeous imagery, but always charming by their purity and truthfulness to nature.-JV. Y. Commercal. The author of this volume has a gifted mind, improved by extensive education ; a Jerful te npe^^ened l,v reiigion ; a sound taste, refined and improved by extensive observation and much reading, and t he gift of poe try— AortA American. The Volume hefore us contains much that is truly beautiful ; many cems that sparkle „nTh genius ™d feeHng They are imbued with the true spirit of poesy, and may b- lead again and again with pleasure.— Inquirer. LINDSAY & BLAKISTON PUBLISH, THE MIRROR OF LIFE, A TRULY AMERICAN BOOK, ENTIRELY ORIGINAL, PRESENTING A VIEW OF THE PROGRESS OF LIFE, FROM INFANCY TO OLD AGE: Illustrated by a series of Eleven Engravings, beautifully executed on Steel, BY J. SARTAIN, PHILADELPHIA, INCLUDING Infancy, (Vignette Title,) Designed by Schmitz. Childhood, Painted " Eicliholtz. Boyhood, (Frontispiece,) Painted " Osgood. Girlhood " Rossiter. Maidenhood " Rothermel. The Bride " Rossiter. The Mother " Rossiter. The Widow " Rossiter. Manhood, Designed " Rothermel. Old Age " Rothermel. The Shrouded Mirror, Designed " Rev. Dr. Morton, The literary contents comprise original articles in prose and verse, from the pens of Rev. G. W. Bethune, Rev. Clement M. Butler, Mrs. Sigourney, Mrs Osgood, Mrs. Hale, Mrs. Ellet, J. T. Headlet, Rev. M. A. Db Wolfe Howe, Miss Sedgwick, Rev. Wm. B. Sprague, Ret. H. Hastings Weld, Miss Caroline E Roberts, Bushrod Bartlett, Esa-i Alice G. Lee, Hope Hesseltine, AND OTHER FAVOURITE AUTHORS OF OUR OWN COUNTRY. EDITED BY MRS. L. C. TUTHILL, And richly bound in various styles. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. This is an elegant volume ; with an excellent design, combining all that is attractive in typographical execution, with beautiful engravings, it illustrates the progress of human life in a series of mezzotints of the most finished style. These handsome pic- tures present boyhood and girlhood, the lover and the loved, the bride and the mother, the widow and old age, with many other scenes that will have a pleasing and salutary impression. The literarj department is executed by a variety of able and entertaining writers, forming altogether a beautiful gift-book, appropriate to all seasons. — JV. Y. Ob server A most beautiful gem of a book, and a superb specimen of artistical skill, as well as a "Mirror of Life." As a brilliant and tasteful ornament for the centre-table, or a memento of affection and good wishes, to he presented in the form of a Birthday Christmas, or New Vear's gift, to a friend, it is richly entitled to the consideration and patronage of the public— Christian Observer. The idea is a happy one, and the work is every way worthy of its subject. Without being too costly, it is in every r spect a very handsome volume ; the sentiments it con lains are not only unobjectionable, hut salutary ; and we cannot conceive a gift of th>- kind which, between intelligent friends, would be more acceptable to the receiver or Honourable to the giver. — JV. ¥. Commercial. 607 -'