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With the exception, perhaps, of "The Broken Heart," (which forms a portion of the volume now before us) the best of Mrs. Lewis' earlier poems are included, for the most part, in "The Records of the Heart.” "Florence" is the opening composition in that collection; and is strongly characteristic embodying nearly all the author's peculiarities of subject, manner, and turn of thought. It is a tale of fervid romance, instinct with the poetic sentiment and spirit, although neither so accurately finished nor so elaborate as some of her late productions. "Laone," "Melpomene," "Zenel," "The Bride of Guayaquil " and "The Last Hour of Sappho," are the most important of the remaining poems in the volume. They all breathe, however, the same spirit and are distinguished by the glow, the enthusiasm, the dreamy romance and apparent (or perhaps real) abandon of expression. To quote individual passages from poems so long as are all those just mentioned, would be to render the author a disservice-but we will make our readers amende by the citation of two of her shorter pieces-each exquisite in a different way.


Thou'rt gone from this cold world of ours,

A resident above

An angel midst unfading flowers

And songs of changeless love;

And com'st no more at eventide
To lay thy hand in mine,
With smiles to cheer our fire-side,
And bid me not repine;
And yet, lost one, thou art to me

More than the living all can be-
A light that shines from Heaven afar,
My morning and my evening star.

I ne'er shall hear again on Earth

Thy footstep's blithesome bound,
Nor meet thee by the parent hearth
When there we kneel around :-
No! nevermore shall see below
Beloved, thy form so fair,
Thy lily cheek and snowy brow
Thy wealth of golden hair;
And yet, lost one, thou art to me
More than the living all can be —
A light that shines from Heaven afar,
My morning and my evening star.

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There must be something more than ordinarily impressive, both in the sentiment and expression, as well as in the cadence, of a refrain, to enable us to admire it, or even to tolerate it, unaltered in its phraseology, through the whole of even a brief poem. We must therefore consider the lines "And thus, lost one," &c., &c., as essentially poetical; and they are. Throughout the whole composition there is a sustained and quiet dignity which is very impressive. But in terse, natural, passionate expression they are not to be compared with

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We can never speak or think of these lines without enthusiasm. They are supremely beautiful in their natural pathos. The passages italicised fill us with a shuddering delight in which we recognize the earnest power of the poet. This poem could not have been written without first being profoundly-despairingly-felt.

The "Child of the Sea" is a tale of romantic adventure-of love, sorrow and crime. It most fully exemplifies the peculiar tone of the author's mind-its romance first-its enthusiasm-its abandon. It is more skilfully executed, however,-better versified and more artistically constructed as a tale, than "Florence" or any other similar narrative by this author. The story is

deeply interesting-full of adventure, passion and imagination. It would not be doing Mrs. Lewis justice to give any digest of the story; and we must content ourselves with a merely general expression of admiration, and the citation of some passages at random.


Oh Crime! thou mayst escape the Laws of Earth;
Mayst trample on the hearts of Love and Worth;
Imbrue thy hideous hands in human blood,
Remorseless as within the limpid flood,

The priceless mines of Ophir mayst unfold,
And clothe thy ghastly form in glowing gold-

The brightest gems from coral caves upcast;

But Heaven's avenging hand will seek thee out at last!


Death touched his heart, and every pulse grew still,
Immovable, and stark, and coldly chill,

As ice that clings around the Boreal Pole;
The last warm spark that played around his soul
Was quenched. Vitality forever flown,
And like a frigid monument of stone,
Prostrate he fell, a senseless, lifeless clod,
Unwept on Earth-an outcast from his God-
A foe to Virtue-to mankind a curse-
A slave to Crime-the Victim of Remorse.

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Ye Powers! that rule the destinies of men!
By some swift blow, obliterate my pain!
My brain is maddened with revengeful Ire,
My heart encompassed by the scorpion's fire.
Angel of Beauty! Virtue deified

On Earth! yet not to earthly things allied!
Thou art too beautiful for mortal touch-
For this vile orb, Heaven ne'er created such
Thou art the fair Redeemer of my heart:
All sinful thoughts thy presence bade depart
Heaven cannot fathom all my Love for thee
'Tis pure-'tis boundless as Eternity!


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