Your old is ever new; perpetual youth
Sits on your brow, a God-given heritage:
Even thus, in her fair ever-green, old Truth
Stands, without waste or weariness or age.
Unchanged in her clear speech and simple song,
Earth utters its old wisdom all around;
Ours be, like hers, a voice distinct and strong,
Speech as unmuffled, wisdom as profound.
All mystery is defect; and cloudy words

Are feebleness, not strength; are loss, not gain;
Men win no victories with spectre swords;

The phantom barque ploughs the broad sea in vain.

If thou hast aught to say, or small or great,
Speak with a clear true voice; all mysteries

Are but man's poor attempts to imitate
The hidden wisdom of the Only Wise.

The day of Delphic oracles is past;

All mimic wisdom is a broken reed;

The gorgeous mountain-mist rolls up at last,

Clouds quench no thirst, and flowers no hunger feed.

MRS. NORTON, 1808

CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH SHERIDAN, the granddaughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, early showed that she inherited the genius of her celebrated ancestor, and in her seventeenth year composed her poem, The Sorrows of Rosalie. Bereaved by death," as it has been said, "of one to whom she had given her heart, she became, in an unpropitious hour, the wife of the Hon. George Chappel Norton." The union proved a most unhappy one, and was dissolved in 1840, Mrs. Norton having been for many years the object of suspicion and persecution of the most mortifying and painful character. That her husband's treatment of her was unjustifiable, no one acquainted with the history of this unfortunate union for a moment doubts; but that in such cases the fault is all on one side, the world rarely, if ever, believes. It is certainly much in Mrs. Norton's favor that she has not forfeited the confidence of her most intimate friends, and that in the darkest hour of her persecution she enjoyed the esteem of some of the first personages in England.

Mrs. Norton's 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. These have given her a very high rank among the female poets of England. The Quarterly Review says that "she 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." For the honor of the sex, I hope the "natural parallel" cannot be carried any further. Indeed, it cannot; for, in

marked contrast to some of Byron's poetry, the moral tone of all that Mrs. Norton has written is pure and elevated. Her poetic powers, naturally of a high order, have been greatly cherished and improved by education and culture, and by a careful study of the best models.

The following beautiful verses are addressed by Mrs. Norton to her to whom she has dedicated her poems:

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 furl'd;
To thee-whose friendship kept its equal truth
Through the most dreary hour of my imbitter'd youth-

I dedicate the lay. Ah! never bard,

In days when poverty was twin with song,

Nor wandering harper, lonely and ill-starr'd,

Cheer'd by some castle's chief, and harbor'd 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 dissent

When, slander'd and malign'd, I stood apart

From those whose bounded power hath wrung, not crush'd, my heart.

Thou, then, when cowards lied away my name,
And scoff'd 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 wing,-
So 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 merc

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 open'd 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!

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,
"Twill 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!

COMMON BLESSINGS.

Those common blessings"! In this checker'd 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 dulness nurst,
Recurring Custom still with Apathy hath curst.

They who have rarest joy, know Joy's true measure;
They who must 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.

HOPE, DESPAIR.

Is then Despair the end of all our woe?

Far off the angel voices answer, No!

Devils despair, for they believe and tremble;

But man believes and hopes. Our griefs resemble

Each other but in this:-Grief comes from heaven;
Each thinks his own the bitterest trial given;

Each wonders at the sorrows of his lot,

His neighbor's sufferings presently forgot,
Though wide the difference which our eyes can see

Not only in grief's kind, but its degree.

God grants to some all joys for their possession;
Nor loss, nor cross, the favor'd mortal mourns;

While some toil on, outside those bounds of blessing,
Whose weary feet forever tread on thorns.
But over all our tears God's rainbow bends;
To all our cries a pitying ear He lends;
Yea, to the feeble sound of man's lament,
How often have His messengers been sent!
No barren glory circles round His throne.
By mercies' errands were His angels known:

Where hearts were heavy, and where eyes were dim,
There did the brightness radiate from Ĕim.
God's pity, clothed in an apparent form,
Starr'd with a polar light the human storm,
Floated o'er tossing seas man's sinking bark,
And for all dangers built one sheltering ark.

RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES, 1809

RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES, now Lord Houghton, was born in Yorkshire, in the year 1809. After graduating at Cambridge, he travelled for some time on the Continent, and, on his return to England, was elected a member of Parliament for the borough of Pontefract, which he represented for many years! His poetical works consist of Poems, Legendary and Historical; Poems of Many Years; Memorials of Many Scenes; Memorials of a Tour in Greece; Poetry for the People; and Palm Leaves (1844). The last of these was written during a tour through Egypt and the Levant, and is "an attempt to introduce to the people of England the manners of thought and the habits of the East." A volume of Selections from his Poetical Works was published by Murray in 1863.

As a poet, Mr. Milnes possesses very considerable elegance and taste: about all his productions there is an artist-like finish, and his ear is finely attuned to the melodies of verse.

YOUTH AND MANHOOD.

Youth, that pursuest with such eager pace
Thy even way,

Thou pantest on to win a mournful race:
Then stay! oh, stay!

Pause and luxuriate in thy sunny plain;
Loiter,-enjoy:

Once past, thou never wilt come back again
A second boy.

The hills of manhood wear a noble face
When seen from far:

The mist of light from which they take their grace
Hides what they are.

The dark and weary path those cliffs between
Thou canst not know,

And how it leads to regions never-green,
Dead fields of snow.

Pause, while thou mayst, nor deem that fate thy gain,
Which, all too fast,

Will drive thee forth from this delicious plain,
A man at last!

1 Pontefract is a town in Yorkshire where the old Roman road crossed the Aire. The name (ad Pontem Fractum, "to the Broken Bridge") tells us that the Roman bridge must have remained unrepaired long enough for the name "Broken Bridge" to become fixed. Milnes's predecessor from this place was the celebrated John Gully, who had been a notorious prize-fighter and a notability on "the turf," and who sat as M.P. for Pontefract for a number of years. Hence the witty epigram of Horace Smith,

"Strange is it proud Pontefract's borough
should sully

Its fame by returning to Parliament Gully;
The etymological cause, I suppose, is

His breaking the bridges of so many noses."

So that England cannot consistently throw stones at us for our having in our Congress, occasionally, as we must acknowledge we have,-a very unworthy member.