Shall ruling sit all memories o'er, Throned in my heart, until the hour The next poem is also written in a hopeful mood :— Fear not, beloved, though clouds may lower, While rainbow visions melt away, Faith's holy star hath still a power That may the deepest midnight sway. Fear not! I take a prophet's tone, Our love can neither wane nor set; My heart grows strong in trust: mine own, What though long anxious years have passed, Whose beam upon our path shall shine. Ay, by the wandering birds, that find By summer suns that brightly rise, Though erst in mournful tears they set; We shall be happy yet! It is really pleasant to know that, although the bliss was short in duration, yet the vows of that faithful heart were heard. Here is one other love note: Another year is dying fast, A chequered year of joy and woe, The rose and thorn at once laid low: Not that my heart can be estranged, But I have learnt to love thee more. Yes, to mine ear thine accents all, K* Thy coming step more musical, As dark and drearier grew the scene. A temperament so framed must, of necessity, take pleasure in the beauties of Nature. I must make room for a few stanzas of her ANTICIPATIONS OF THE COUNTRY. The summer sunshine falls O'er the hot vistas of the crowded town, With beauty and with glory not their own; The summer skies are bright, A canopy of peace above the strife Of human hearts that fight And struggle on the battle plain of life. Summers have passed away Since I a dweller 'mid this scene became, And still their earliest ray Hath sent a thirsty longing through my frame In the green woodlands, in the pastures fair, And not as travelers are; My heart hath yearned to be a dweller there. It comes, it comes at last; All I have panted for is near me now; Ere many hours have past, A cool untroubled breeze shall fan my brow. The faint continuous hum That hath been round me till 'twas scarcely heard, No more shall near me come To mar the melodies of bee or bird. No more the sultry street Shall echo to my quick, uneasy tread; To where the turf in daisied pride is spread. No more the whirling wheel, The tramping horses, and the people's shout; Oh! how my heart will feel The pleasant quiet circling me about. Blessed to go away, To where the wild-flower blooms and wood-bird sings, And lightly o'er the spray The purple vetch its wreathing garland flings. * One more I must quote, of a still different strain. It was left without a title, a mere fragment among her papers; but the editor of the "Dublin University Magazine" has called it THE GIFTED. Oh, woe for those whose dearest themes To nothing in this earthly sphere; Where nothing mortal may appear; Such his perplexing grief who seeks In vain their sympathy implores. Without a guiding star above, With an unmeasured deep before. The world doth scorn them, gibe, condemn;- Surely this was a very remarkable woman; and these poems (there are many more of nearly equal beauty) should not be left to the perishable record of a magazine. Her earliest publications were, as I have said, of little worth; but enough of the highest merit might be collected to form an enduring memorial of her genius and her virtues. XVIII. AMERICAN ORATORS. DANIEL WEBSTER. ONE of the greatest, if not the very greatest, of the living orators of America, is, beyond all manner of doubt, Daniel Webster. That he is also celebrated as a lawyer and a statesman, is a matter of course in that practical country, where even so high a gift as that of eloquence is brought to bear on the fortunes of individuals and the prosperity of the commonwealth,—no idle pilaster placed for ornament, but a solid column aiding to support the building. A column indeed, stately and graceful with its Corinthian capital, gives no bad idea of Mr. Webster; of his tall and muscular person, his massive features, noble head, and the general expression of placid strength by which he is distinguished. This is a mere fanciful comparison; but Sir Augustus Callcott's fine figure of Columbus has been reckoned very like him; a resemblance that must have been fortuitous, since the picture was painted before the artist had even seen the celebrated orator. When in England some ten or twelve years ago, Mr. Webster's calm manner of speaking excited much admiration and perhaps a little surprise, as contrasted with the astounding and somewhat rough rapidity of progress which is the chief characteristic of his native land. And yet that calmness of manner was just what might be expected from a countryman of Washington, earnest, thoughtful, weighty, wise. No visitor to London ever left behind him pleasanter recollections, and I hope that the good impression was reciprocal. Every body was delighted with his geniality and taste; and he could hardly fail to like the people who so heartily liked him. Among our cities and our scenery he admired that most which was most worthy of admiration; preferring, in common with many of the most gifted of his coun trymen, our beautiful Oxford, whose winding street exhibits such a condensation of picturesque architecture, mixed with water, trees, and gardens, with ancient costume, with eager youth, with by-gone associations and rising hope, certainly to any of our new commercial towns, and perhaps, as mere picture, to London herself; and carrying home with him, as one of the most precious and characteristic memorials of the land of his forefathers, a large collection of architectural engravings, representing our magnificent Gothic cathedrals, and such of our Norman castles and Tudor manor-houses, as have escaped the barbarities of modern improvers. We are returning ourselves to that style now; but twelve years ago it was his own good taste, and not the fashion of the day that prompted the preference. I owe to his kindness, and to that of my admirable friend, Mr. Kenyon, who accompanied him, the honor and pleasure of a visit from Mr. Webster and his amiable family in their transit from Oxford to Windsor;-my local position between these two points of attraction has often procured for me the gratification of seeing my American friends when making that journey;—but during this visit, a little circumstance occurred so characteristic, so graceful, and so gracious, that I can not resist the temptation of relating it. Walking in my cottage garden, we talked naturally of the roses and pinks that surrounded us, and of the different indigenous flowers of our island and of the United States. I had myself had the satisfaction of sending to my friend, Mr. Theodore Sedgwick, a hamper containing roots of many English plants familiar to our poetry: the common ivy-how could they want ivy who had had no time for ruins?-the primrose and the cowslip, immortalized by Shakspeare and by Milton; and the sweet-scented violets, both white and purple, of our hedgerows and our lanes; that known as the violet in America (Mr. Bryant somewhere speaks of it as "the yellow violet") being, I suspect, the little wild pansy (viola tricolor) renowned as the love-in-idleness of Shakspeare's famous compliment to Queen Elizabeth. Of these we spoke; and I expressed an interest in two flowers known to me only by the vivid description of Miss Martineau the scarlet lily of New York and of the Canadian woods, and the fringed gentian of Niagara. I observed that our illustrious guest made some remark to one of the ladies of his party; but I little ex |