Dear children! when the flowers are full of bees;
When sun-touched blossoms shed their fragrant snow;
When song speaks like a spirit, from the trees
Whose kindled greenness hath a golden glow;
When, clear as music, rill and river flow,
With trembling hues, all changeful, tinted o'er
By that bright pencil which good spirits know
Alike in earth and heaven-'tis sweet, once more,
Above the sky-tinged hills to see the storm-bird soar.
'Tis passing sweet to wander, free as air,
Blithe truants in the bright and breeze-blessed day,
Far from the town-where stoop the sons of care
O'er plans of mischief, till their souls turn gray,
And dry as dust, and dead-alive are they
Of all self-buried things the most unblessed:
O Morn! to them no blissful tribute pay!
O Night's long-courted slumbers! bring no rest
To men who laud man's foes, and deem the basest

best!

God! would they handcuff thee? and, if they could
Chain the free air, that, like the daisy, goes
To every field; and bid the warbling wood
Exchange no music with the willing rose
For love-sweet odours, where the woodbine blows
And trades with every cloud, and every beam
Of the rich sky! Their gods are bonds and blows,
Rocks, and blind shipwreck; and they hate the

stream

That leaves them still behind, and mocks their changeless dream.

They know ye not, ye flowers that welcome me,
Thus glad to meet, by trouble parted long!
They never saw ye-never may they see
Your dewy beauty, when the throstle's song
Floweth like starlight, gentle, calm, and strong!
Still, Avarice, starve their souls! still, lowest Pride,
Make them the meanest of the basest throng!
And may they never, on the green hill's side,
Embrace a chosen flower, and love it as a bride!
Blue Eyebright!* loveliest flower of all that grow
In flower-loved England! Flower, whose hedge-side

gaze

[Pictures of Native Genius.]

O faithful love, by poverty embraced!
Thy heart is fire, amid a wintry waste;
Thy joys are roses, born on Hecla's brow;
Thy home is Eden, warm amid the snow;

And she, thy mate, when coldest blows the storm,
Clings then most fondly to thy guardian form;
E'en as thy taper gives intensest light,
When o'er thy bowed roof darkest falls the night.
Oh, if thou e'er hast wronged her, if thou e'er
From those mild eyes hast caused one bitter tear
The Geornander Speedwell.

To flow unseen, repent, and sin no more!
For richest gems compared with her, are poor;
Gold, weighed against her heart, is light-is vile;
And when thou sufferest, who shall see her smile?
Sighing, ye wake, and sighing, sink to sleep,
And seldom smile, without fresh cause to weep;
(Scarce dry the pebble, by the wave dashed o'er,
Another comes, to wet it as before);

Yet while in gloom your freezing day declines,
How fair the wintry sunbeam when it shines!
Your foliage, where no summer leaf is seen,
Sweetly embroiders earth's white veil with green;
And your broad branches, proud of storm-tried
strength,

Stretch to the winds in sport their stalwart length,
And calmly wave, beneath the darkest hour,
The ice-born fruit, the frost-defying flower.
Let luxury, sickening in profusion's chair,
Unwisely pamper his unworthy heir,

And, while he feeds him, blush and tremble too!
But love and labour, blush not, fear not you!
Your children (splinters from the mountain's side),
With rugged hands, shall for themselves provide.
Parent of valour, cast away thy fear!

Mother of men, be proud without a tear!
While round your hearth the wo-nursed virtues move,
And all that manliness can ask of love;
Remember Hogarth, and abjure despair;
Reinember Arkwright, and the peasant Clare.
Burns, o'er the plough, sung sweet his wood-notes wild,
And richest Shakspeare was a poor man's child.
Sire, green in age, mild, patient, toil-inured,
Endure thine evils as thou hast endured.
Behold thy wedded daughter, and rejoice!
Hear hope's sweet accents in a grandchild's voice!
See freedom's bulwarks in thy sons arise,
And Hampden, Russell, Sidney, in their eyes!
And should some new Napoleon's curse subdue
All hearths but thine, let him behold them too,
And timely shun a deadlier Waterloo.

Northumbrian vales! ye saw, in silent pride,
The pensive brow of lowly Akenside,
When, poor, yet learned, he wandered young and free,
And felt within the strong divinity.

Scenes of his youth, where first he wooed the Nine,
His spirit still is with you, vales of Tyne!
As when he breathed, your blue-belled paths along,
The soul of Plato into British song.

Born in a lowly hut an infant slept,
Dreamful in sleep, and, sleeping, smiled or wept:
Silent the youth-the man was grave and shy:
His parents loved to watch his wondering eye:
And lo! he waved a prophet's hand, and gave,
Where the winds soar, a pathway to the wave!
From hill to hill bade air-hung rivers stride,
And flow through mountains with a conqueror's pride:
O'er grazing herds, lo! ships suspended sail,
And Brindley's praise hath wings in every gale!

The worm came up to drink the welcome shower; The redbreast quaffed the raindrop in the bower; The flaskering duck through freshened lilies swam ; The bright roach took the fly below the dam; Ramped the glad colt, and cropped the pensile spray; No more in dust uprose the sultry way; The lark was in the cloud; the woodbine hung More sweetly o'er the chaffinch while he sung; And the wild rose, from every dripping bush, Beheld on silvery Sheaf the mirrored blush; When calmly seated on his panniered ass, Where travellers hear the steel hiss as they pass, A milkboy, sheltering from the transient storm, Chalked, on the grinder's wall, an infant's form; Young Chantrey smiled; no critic praised or blamed; And golden promise smiled, and thus exclaimed :— 'Go, child of genius! rich be thine increase; Go-be the Phidias of the second Greece!'

[Apostrophe to Futurity.]

Ye rocks! ye elements! thou shoreless main,
In whose blue depths, worlds, ever voyaging,
Freighted with life and death, of fate complain.
Things of immutability! ye bring

Thoughts that with terror and with sorrow wring
The human breast. Unchanged, of sad decay
And deathless change ye speak, like prophets old,
Foretelling evil's ever-present day;
And as when Horror lays his finger cold
Upon the heart in dreams, appal the bold.
O thou Futurity! our hope and dread,
Let me unveil thy features, fair or foul!
Thou who shalt see the grave untenanted,
And commune with the re-embodied soul!
Tell me thy secrets, ere thy ages roll

Their deeds, that yet shall be on earth, in heaven,
And in deep hell, where rabid hearts with pain
Must purge their plagues, and learn to be forgiven!
Show me the beauty that shall fear no stain,
And still, through age-long years, unchanged remain !
As one who dreads to raise the pallid sheet
Which shrouds the beautiful and tranquil face
That yet can smile, but never more shall meet,
With kisses warm, his ever fond embrace;
So I draw nigh to thee, with timid pace,
And tremble, though I long to lift thy veil.

A Poet's Prayer.

Almighty Father! let thy lowly child,
Strong in his love of truth, be wisely bold-
A patriot bard, by sycophants reviled,
Let him live usefully, and not die old!
Let poor men's children, pleased to read his lays,
Love, for his sake, the scenes where he hath been.
And when he ends his pilgrimage of days,
Let him be buried where the grass is green,
Where daisies, blooming earliest, linger late
To hear the bee his busy note prolong;
There let him slumber, and in peace await
The dawning morn, far from the sensual throng,
Who scorn the windflower's blush, the redbreast's lonely
song.

MRS NORTON.

The family of Sheridan has been prolific of genius, and MRS NORTON, granddaughter of Richard Brinsley, has well sustained the family honours. Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Sheridan was, at the age of nineteen, married to the Honourable George Chapple Norton, brother to Lord Grantley, and himself a police magistrate in London. This union was dissolved in 1840, after Mrs Norton had been the object of suspicion and persecution of the most painful description. In her seventeenth year, this lady had composed her poem, The Sorrows of Rosalie, a pathetic story of village life. Her next work was a poem founded on the ancient legend of the Wandering Jew, which she termed The Undying One. A third volume appeared from her pen in 1840, entitled The Dream, and other Poems. This lady,' says a writer in the Quarterly Review, is the Byron of our modern poetesses. She has very much of that intense personal passion by which Byron's poetry is distinguished from the larger grasp and deeper communion with man and nature of Wordsworth. She has also Byron's beautiful intervals of tenderness, his strong practical thought, and his forceful expression. It is not an artificial imitation, but a natural parallel.' The truth of this remark, both as to poetical and personal similarity of feeling, will be seen from the following impassioned verses, addressed by Mrs Norton to the Duchess of Sutherland, to whom she has dedicated her poems. The

simile of the swan flinging aside the turbid drops' from her snowy wing is certainly worthy of Byron.

[To the Duchess of Sutherland.]

Once more, my harp! once more, although I thought
Never to wake thy silent strings again,

A wandering dream thy gentle chords have wrought,
And my sad heart, which long hath dwelt in pain,
Soars, like a wild bird from a cypress bough,
Into the poet's heaven, and leaves dull grief below!
And unto thee the beautiful and pure--

Whose lot is cast amid that busy world
Where only sluggish Dulness dwells secure,

And Fancy's generous wing is faintly furled; To thee-whose friendship kept its equal truth Through the most dreary hour of my embittered youth

I dedicate the lay. Ah! never bard,

In days when poverty was twin with song; Nor wandering harper, lonely and ill-starred, Cheered by some castle's chief, and harboured long; Not Scott's Last Minstrel, in his trembling lays, Woke with a warmer heart the earnest meed of praise! For easy are the alms the rich man spares

To sons of Genius, by misfortune bent; But thou gav'st me, what woman seldom dares, Belief in spite of many a cold dissentWhen, slandered and maligned, I stood apart From those whose bounded power hath wrung, not crushed, my heart.

Thou, then, when cowards lied away my name,

And scoffed to see me feebly stem the tide;
When some were kind on whom I had no claim,
And some forsook on whom my love relied,
And some, who might have battled for my sake,
Stood off in doubt to see what turn the world would
take-

Thou gav'st me that the poor do give the poor,
Kind words and holy wishes, and true tears;
The loved, the near of kin could do no more,

Who changed not with the gloom of varying years,
But clung the closer when I stood forlorn,
And blunted Slander's dart with their indignant scorn.
For they who credit crime, are they who feel

Their own hearts weak to unresisted sin; Memory, not judgment, prompts the thoughts which

steal

O'er minds like these, an easy faith to win; And tales of broken truth are still believed Most readily by those who have themselves deceived. But like a white swan down a troubled stream,

Whose ruffling pinion hath the power to fling Aside the turbid drops which darkly gleam

And mar the freshness of her snowy wingSo thou, with queenly grace and gentle pride, Along the world's dark waves in purity dost glide: Thy pale and pearly cheek was never made

To crimson with a faint false-hearted shame;

Thou didst not shrink-of bitter tongues afraid,

Who hunt in packs the object of their blame; To thee the sad denial still held true,

For from thine own good thoughts thy heart its mercy

drew.

And though my faint and tributary rhymes
Add nothing to the glory of thy day,
Yet every poet hopes that after-times

Shall set some value on his votive lay;
And I would fain one gentle deed record,
Among the many such with which thy life is stored.

So when these lines, made in a mournful hour,
Are idly opened to the stranger's eye,
A dream of thee, aroused by Fancy's power,
Shall be the first to wander floating by;
And they who never saw thy lovely face
Shall pause, to conjure up a vision of its grace!
In The Winter's Walk, a poem written after walking
with Mr Rogers the poet, Mrs Norton has the fol-
lowing brief but graceful and picturesque lines:-
Gleamed the red sun athwart the misty haze
Which veiled the cold earth from its loving gaze,
Feeble and sad as hope in sorrow's hour-
But for thy soul it still had warmth and power;
Not to its cheerless beauty wert thou blind;
To the keen eye of thy poetic mind
Beauty still lives, though nature's flowrets die,
And wintry sunsets fade along the sky!
And nought escaped thee as we strolled along,
Nor changeful ray, nor bird's faint chirping song.
Blessed with a fancy easily inspired,

All was beheld, and nothing unadmired;
From the dim city to the clouded plain,
Not one of all God's blessings given in vain.

The affectionate attachment of Rogers to Sheridan, in his last and evil days, is delicately touched upon by the poetess :

And when at length he laid his dying head
On the hard rest of his neglected bed,
He found (though few or none around him came
Whom he had toiled for in his hour of fame-
Though by his prince unroyally forgot,
And left to struggle with his altered lot)
By sorrow weakened, by disease unnerved-
Faithful at least the friend he had not served:
For the same voice essayed that hour to cheer,
Which now sounds welcome to his grandchild's ear;
And the same hand, to aid that life's decline,
Whose gentle clasp so late was linked in mine.

[Picture of Twilight.]

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;
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, though 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 these 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,
Fixed 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 song!

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.

The Mother's Heart.

When first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond,
My eldest born, first hope, and dearest treasure,
My heart received thee with a joy beyond

All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure;
Nor thought that any love again might be
So deep and strong as that I felt for thee.
Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years,
And natural piety that leaned to heaven;
Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears,

Yet patient of rebuke when justly given-
Obedient, easy to be reconciled,

And meekly cheerful-such wert thou, my child.
Not willing to be left: still by my side

Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dying; Nor leaving in thy turn; but pleased to glide

Through the dark room, where I was sadly lying; Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek, Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek. O boy! of such as thou are oftenest made

Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower, No strength in all thy freshness-prone to fadeStill round the loved, thy heart found force to bind, And bending weakly to the thunder showerAnd clung like woodbine shaken in the wind. Then thou, my merry love, bold in thy glee

Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing, With thy sweet temper and thy spirit free,

Didst come as restless as a bird's wing glancing, Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth, Like a young sunbeam to the gladdened earth! Thine was the shout! the song! the burst of joy! Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip resoundeth; Thine was the eager spirit nought could cloy

And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth; And many a mirthful jest and mock reply Lurked in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye! And thine was many an art to win and bless, The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming; The coaxing smile-the frequent soft caress

The earnest, tearful prayer all wrath disarming! Again my heart a new affection found,

But thought that love with thee had reached its bound. At length thou camest-thou, the last and least,

Nicknamed 'the emperor' by thy laughing brothers, Because a haughty spirit swelled thy breast,

And thou didst seek to rule and sway the others;
Mingling with every playful infant wile
A mimic majesty that made us smile.
And oh! most like a regal child wert thou!
An eye of resolute and successful scheming-
Fair shoulders, curling lip, and dauntless brow-
Fit for the world's strife, not for poet's dreaming;
And proud the lifting of thy stately head,
And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread.
Different from both! yet each succeeding claim,
I, that all other love had been forswearing,
Forthwith admitted, equal and the same;

Nor injured either by this love's comparing,
Nor stole a fraction for the newer call,
But in the mother's heart found room for all.

MRS SOUTHEY.

MRS SOUTHEY (Caroline Bowles) is one of the most pleasing and natural poetesses of the day. She has published various works-Ellen Fitzarthur (1820), The Widow's Tale and other Poems (1822), The Birthday and other Poems (1836), Solitary Hours (1839), &c. The following are excellent both in thought and versification :

Mariner's Hymn.

Launch thy bark, mariner!
Christian, God speed thee!
Let loose the rudder-bands--
Good angels lead thee!
Set thy sails warily,
Tempests will come;
Steer thy course steadily;
Christian, steer home!
Look to the weather-bow,
Breakers are round thee;
Let fall the plummet now,
Shallows may ground thee.
Reef in the foresail, there!
Hold the helm fast!
So let the vessel wear-
There swept the blast.
"What of the night, watchman?
What of the night?'
'Cloudy-all quiet-

No land yet-all's right.'
Be wakeful, be vigilant-
Danger may be

At an hour when all seemeth
Securest to thee.

How! gains the leak so fast?
Clean out the hold-
Hoist up thy merchandise,
Heave out thy gold;
There-let the ingots go-
Now the ship rights;
Hurra! the harbour's near-
Lo! the red lights!

Slacken not sail yet

At inlet or island;

Straight for the beacon steer,
Straight for the high land;
Crowd all thy canvass on,
Cut through the foam-
Christian! cast anchor now-
Heaven is thy home!

ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.

MISS ELIZABETH B. BARRETT, a learned lady, has published Prometheus Bound, a translation from the Greek of Eschylus; and written two original works, The Seraphim and other Poems (1838), and The Romaunt of the Page (1839).

Cowper's Grave.

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.

O poets! from a maniac's tongue
Was poured the deathless singing!
O 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;

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 in his human eyes,
With sylvan tendernesses.

But while in darkness 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.

MARY HOWITT.

This lady, the wife of William Howitt, an industrious miscellaneous writer, is distinguished for her happy imitations of the ancient ballad manner. In 1823 she and her husband published a volume of poems with their united names, and made the following statement in the preface: The history of our poetical bias simply what we believe, in reality, to be that of many others. Poetry has been our youthful amusement, and our increasing daily enjoyment in happy, and our solace in sorrowful hours. Amidst the vast and delicious treasures of our national literature, we have revelled with growing and unsatiated delight; and, at the same time, living chiefly in the quietness of the country, we have watched the changing features of nature; we have felt the secret charm of those sweet but unostentatious images which she is perpetually presenting, and given full scope to those workings of the imagination and of the heart, which natural beauty and solitude prompt and promote. The natural result was the transcription of those images and scenes.'

A poem in this volume serves to complete a happy picture of studies pursued by a married pair in concert :

Away with the pleasure that is not partaken!
There is no enjoyment by one only ta'en:

I love in my mirth to see gladness awaken

On lips, and in eyes, that reflect it again. When we sit by the fire that so cheerily blazes

On our cozy hearthstone, with its innocent glee, Oh! how my soul warms, while my eye fondly gazes, To see my delight is partaken by thee!

And when, as how often, I eagerly listen

To stories thou read'st of the dear olden day, How delightful to see our eyes mutually glisten,

And feel that affection has sweetened the lay. Yes, love-and when wandering at even or morning, Through forest or wild, or by waves foaming white, I have fancied new beauties the landscape adorning, Because I have seen thou wast glad in the sight. And how often in crowds, where a whisper offendeth, And we fain would express what there might not be said,

How dear is the glance that none else comprehendeth, And how sweet is the thought that is secretly

read!

nated,' she says, 'in a strong impression of the immense value of the human soul, and of all the varied modes of its trials, according to its own infinitely varied modifications, as existing in different individuals. 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 impulses of passion, and the vast constraint of circumstances, that are brought into play against suffering humanity. In the luminous words of my motto,

What's done we partly may compute,

But know not what's resisted.

Thus, without sufficient reflection, we are furnished with data on which to condemn our fellow-creatures, but without sufficient grounds for their palliation and commiseration. It is necessary, for the acquisi. tion of that charity which is the soul of Christianity, for us to descend into the depths of our own nature; to put ourselves into many imaginary and untried situations, that we may enable ourselves to form some tolerable notion how we might be affected by them; how far we might be tempted-how far deceived-how far we might have occasion to lament the evil power of circumstances, to weep over our own weakness, and pray for the pardon of our crimes; that, having raised up this vivid perception of what we might do, suffer, and become, we may apply the rule to our fellows, and cease to be astonished, in some degree, at the shapes of atrocity into which some of them are transformed; and learn to bear with others as brethren, who have been tried tenfold beyond our own experience, or perhaps our strength.'

Mrs Howitt has since presented several volumes in both prose and verse, chiefly designed for young people. The whole are marked by a graceful intelligence and a simple tenderness which at once charm the reader and win his affections for the author.

Mountain Children.

Dwellers by lake and hill !

Merry companions of the bird and bee!

Go gladly forth and drink of joy your fill, With unconstrained step and spirits free!

No crowd impedes your way,

No city wall impedes your further bounds;

Where the wild flock can wander, ye may stray The long day through, 'mid summer sights and sounds. The sunshine and the flowers,

And the old trees that cast a solemn shade;

The pleasant evening, the fresh dewy hours, And the green hills whereon your fathers played.

The gray and ancient peaks

Round which the silent clouds hang day and night;
And the low voice of water as it makes,
Like a glad creature, murmurings of delight.

These are your joys! Go forth-
Give your hearts up unto their mighty power;

For in his spirit God has clothed the earth,
And speaketh solemnly from tree and flower.
The voice of hidden rills
Its quiet way into your spirits finds;
And awfully the everlasting hills
Address you in their many-toned winds.

Ye sit upon the earth
Twining its flowers, and shouting full of glee;

And a pure mighty influence, 'mid your mirth, Moulds your unconscious spirits silently.