When through the peaceful parish swells The music of the Sabbath-bells, Duly tread the sacred road Which leads you to the house of God; And oh where'er your days be passed, Abroad, at home, in weal, in wo, And God shall be your strength alway. He only to the heart can give Peace and true pleasure while you live; He can, He will, from out the dust ness. FELICIA HEMANS. MRS. HEMANS was born in Liverpool on the 21st of September, 1793. Her history is well known. An unhappy marriage embittered the larger part of her life, and after an illness singularly protracted and painful, she died, in Dublin, on the 16th of May, 1835. The most remarkable characteristics of Mrs. Hemans's poetry are a religious purity and a womanly delicacy of feeling, never exaggerated, rarely forgotten. Writing less of love, in its more special acceptation, than most female poets, her poems are still unsurpassed in feminine tenderDevotion to God, and quenchless affection for kindred, for friends, for the suffering, glow through all her writings. Her sympathies were not universal. They appear often to be limited by country, creed, or condition; and she betrays a reverent admiration for rank, power, and historic renown. Yet as the poet of home, a painter of the affections, she was perhaps the most touching and beautiful writer of her age. The tone of her poetry is indeed monotonous; it is pervaded by the tender sadness which forever preyed upon her spirit, and made her an exile from society; but it is all informed with beauty, and rich with most apposite imagery and fine descriptions. Many editions of the works of Mrs. Hemans have appeared in this country, of which the best, indeed the only one that has any pretensions to completeness, is that of Lea and Blanchard, in seven volumes, with a preliminary notice by Mrs. Sigourney. THE AGED PATRIARCH. Of life's past woes, the fading trace Years o'er his snowy head have passed, Is bright with majesty serene; And those high hopes, whose guiding star Have with that light illumed his eye, And o'er his features poured a ray On earth by naught but pity's tie, E'en now half-mingled with the sky, CHRIST STILLING THE TEMPEST. FEAR was within the tossing bark, When stormy winds grew And men stood breathless in their dread, But One was there, who rose and said And the wind ceased-it ceased-that word And slumber settled on the deep, As when the righteous fall asleep, When death's fierce throes are past. Thou, that didst rule the angry hour, Thou, that didst bow the billow's pride, So speak to passion's raging tide, Speak and say,-"Peace, be still!" A DOMESTIC SCENE. "TWAS early day-and sunlight streamed That hushed, but not forsaken, seemed— For there, secure in happy age, A father communed with the page Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright And touched the book with tenderest light, A radiance all the spirits own, Caught not from sun or star. Some word of life e'en then had met Some ancient promise breathing yet Of immortality; Some heart's deep language, where the glow Of quenchless faith survives; For every feature said, "I know That my Redeemer lives." And silent stood his children by, Of thoughts o'ersweeping death; THE BETTER LAND. "I HEAR thee speak of the better land, Thou call'st its children a happy band; Mother! oh where is that radiant shore? Shall we not seek it, and weep no more? Is it where the flower of the orange blows, And the fire-flies dance through the myrtle-boughs" "Not there, not there, my child!" "Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, And the date grows ripe under sunny skies? Or 'midst the green islands on glittering seas, Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings, Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?" Not there, not there, my child!" "Is it far away in some region old, Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold? Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand, Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?" Not there, not there, my 'Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy! Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy! child! |