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Oh! I could wail in lonely fear,
For many a woful ghost sits here,
All weeping with their fixed eyes!
And what a dismal sound of sighs
Is mingling with the gentle roar
Of small waves breaking on the shore ;
While ocean seems to sport and play
In mockery of its wretched prey !
And lo! a white-winged vessel sails,
In sunshine, gathering all the gales
Fast freshening from yon isle of pines
That o'er the clear sea waves and shines.
I turn me to the ghostly crowd,
All smeared with

dust, without a shroud,
And silent every blue-swollen lip!
Then gazing on the sunny ship,
And listening to the gladaome cheers
Of all her thoughtless mariners,
I seem to hear in every breath
The hollow under-tones of death,
Who, all unheard by those who sing,
Keeps tune with low wild murmuring,
And points with his lean bony hand
To the pale ghosts sitting on this strand,
Then dives beneath the rushing prow,
Till on some moonless night of wo
He drives her shivering from the steep,
Down-down a thousand fathoms deep.

The cold wan light that glimmers here,
The sickly wild flowers may not cheer;
If here, with solitary hum,
The wandering mountain-bee doth come,
'Mid the pale blossoms short his stay,
To brighter leaves he booms away.
The sea-bird, with a wailing sound,
Alighteth softly on a mound,
And, like an image, sitting there
For hours amid the doleful air,
Seemeth to tell of some dim union,
Some wild and mystical communion,
Connecting with his parent sea
This lonesome stoneless cemetery.
This may not be the burial-place
Of some extinguished kingly race,
Whose name on earth no longer known,
Hath mouldered with the mouldering stone.
That nearest grave, yet brown with mould,
Seems but one summer-twilight old ;
Both late and frequent hath the bier
Been on its mournful visit here;
And yon green spot of sunny rest
Is waiting for its destined guest.
I see no little kirk-no bell
On Sabbath tinkleth through this dell;
How beautiful those graves and fair,
That, lying round the

house of prayer,
Sleep in the shadow of its grace!
But death hath chosen this rueful place
For his own undivided reign !
And nothing tells that e'er again
The sleepers will forsake their bed-
Now, and for everlasting dead,
For Hope with Memory seems fled !
Wild-screaming bird! unto the sea
Winging thy Aight reluctantly,
Slow floating o'er these grassy tombs
So ghost-like, with thy snow-white plumes,
At once from thy wild shriek I know
What means this place so steeped in wo!
Here, they who perished on the deep
Enjoy at last unrocking sleep;
For ocean, from his wrathful breast,
Flung them into this haven of rest,
Where shroudless, coffinless, they lie-
'Tis the shipwrecked seaman's cemetery,
Here seamen old, with grizzled locks,
Shipwrecked before on desert rocks,
And by some wandering vessel taken
From sorrows that seem God-forsaken,
Home bound, here have met the blast
That wrecked them on death's shore at lasti
Old friendless men, who had no tears
To shed, nor any place for fears
In hearts by misery fortified,
And, without terror, sternly died.
Here many a creature moving bright
And glorious in full manhood's might,
Who dared with an untroubled eye
The tempest brooding in the sky,
And loved to hear that music rave,
And danced above the mountain-wave,
Hath quaked on this terrific strand,
All flung like sea-weeds to the land;
A whole crew lying side by side,
Death-dashed at once in all their pride.
And here the bright-haired fair-faced boy,
Who took with him all earthly joy,
From one who weeps both night and day
For her sweet son bome far away,
Escaped at last the cruel deep,
In all his beauty lies asleep ;
While she would yield all hopes of grace
For one kiss of his pale cold face !

(The Shiproreck.]

[From the Isle of Palms. ] But list! a low and moaning sound At distance heard, like a spirit's song, And now it reigns above, around, As if it called the ship along. The moon is sunk; and a clouded gray Declares that her course is run, And like a god who brings the day, Up mounts the glorious sun. Soon as his light has warmed the seas, From the parting cloud fresh blows the breeze; And that is the spirit whose well-known song Makes the vessel to sail in joy along. No fears hath she; her giant form O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm, Majestically calm would go 'Mid the deep darkness white as snow! But gently now the small waves glide Like playful lambs o'er å mountain's side. So stately her bearing, so proud her array, The main she will traverse for ever and aye. Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast ;Hush! hush ! thou vain dreamer! this hour is her last. Five hundred souls in one instant of dread

Are hurried o'er the deck;
And fast the miserable ship

Becomes a lifeless wreck.
Her keel hath struck on a hidden rock,

Her planks are tom asunder,
And down come her masts with a reeling shock,

And a hideous crash like thunder.
Her sails are draggled in the brine,

That gladdened late the skies,
And her pendant, that kissed the fair moonshine,

Down many a fathom lies.
Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow hues

Gleamed softly from below,
And flung a warm and sunny flush

O'er the wreaths of murmuring snow,
To the coral-rocks are hurrying down,
To sleep amid colours as bright as their own.
Oh! many a dream was in the ship

An hour before her death;
And sights of home with sighs disturbed
The sleeper's long-drawn breath.

acquiring several languages, and still cultivating poetry. In 1818 Captain Hemans removed to Italy for the benefit of his health. His accomplished wife remained in England, and they never met again. In

Instead of the murmur of the sea,
The sailor heard the humming tree

Alire through all its leaves,
The hum of the spreading sycamore
That grows before his cottage-door,

And the swallow's song in the eaves.
His arms enclosed a blooming boy,
Who listened with tears of sorrow and joy

To the dangers his father had passed ;
And his wife by turns she wept and smiled,
As she looked on the father of her child,

Returned to her heart at last.
He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll,
And the rush of waters is in his soul.
Astounded, the reeling deck he paces,
'Mid hurrying forms and ghastly faces ;

The whole ship's crew are there!
Wailings around and overhead,
Brave spirits stupified or dead,

And madness and despair.
Now is the ocean's bosom bare,
Unbroken as the floating air;
The ship hath melted quite away,
Like a struggling dream at break of day.
No image meets my wandering eye,
But the

new-risen sun and the sunny sky.
Though the night-shades are gone, yet a vapour dull
Bedims the waves so beautiful :
While a low and melancholy moan
Mourns for the glory that hath flown.


• MRS HEMANS. MRS HEMANS (Felicia Dorothea Browne) was born

Rhyllon-the residence of Mrs Hemans in Wales. at Liverpool on the 25th September 1793. Her 1819 she obtained a prize of £50 offered by some

patriotic Scotsman for the best poem on the subject
of Sir William Wallace. Next year she published
The Sceptic. In June 1821 she obtained the prize
awarded by the Royal Society of Literature for the
best poem on the subject of Dartmoor. Her next
effort was a tragedy, the Vespers of Palermo, which
was produced at Covent Garden, December 12, 1823;
but though supported by the admirable acting of
Kemble and Young, it was not successful. In 1826
appeared her best poem, the Forest Sanctuary, and
in 1828, Records of Woman. She afterwards pro-
duced Lays of Leisure Hours, National Lyrics, &c.
In 1829 she paid a visit to Scotland, and was re-
ceived with great kindness by Sir Walter Scott,
Jeffrey, and others of the Scottish literati. In 1830
appeared her Songs of the Affections. The same year
she visited Wordsworth, and appears to have been
much struck with the secluded beauty of Rydal
Lake and Grasmere-

O vale and lake, within your mountain urn
Smiling so tranquilly, and set so deep!
Oft doth your dreamy loveliness return,
Colouring the tender shadows of my sleep
With light Elysian; for the hues that steep
Your shores in melting lustre, seem to float

On golden clouds from spirit lands remote

Isles of the blest—and in our memory keep

Their place with holiest harmonies. father was a merchant; but, experiencing some re- Wordsworth said to her one day, 'I would not give verses, he removed with his family to Wales, and up the mists that spiritualise our mountains for all there the young poetess imbibed that love of nature the blue skies of Italy'-an original and poetical which is displayed in all her works. In her fifteenth expression. On her return from the lakes, Mrs year she ventured on publication. Her first volyme Hemans went to reside in Dublin, where her brother, was far from successful; but she persevered, and in Major Browne, was settled. The education of her 1812 published another, entitled The Domestic Affec- family (ive boys) occupied much of her time ard tions, and other Poems. The same year she was mar- attention. ni health, however, pressed heavily on ried to Captain Hemans; but the union does not seem her, and she soon experienced a premature decay to have been a happy one. She continued her studies, I of the springs of life. In 1834 appeared her little volume of Hymns for Childhood, and a collection of I have breathed on the South, and the chestnutScenes and Hymns of Life. She also published some flowers sonnets, under the title of Thoughts during Sickness. By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers : Her last strain, produced only about three weeks And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes, before her death, was the following fine sonnet dic- Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains. tated to her brother on Sunday the 26th of April:- But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,


To speak of the ruin or the tomb ! How many blessed groups this hour are bending, Through England's primrose meadow-paths, their way I have passed o'er the hills of the stormy North, Toward spire and tower, 'midst shadowy elms as. And the larch has hung all his tassels forth, cending,

The fisher is out on the sunny sea, Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day! And the reindeer bounds through the pasture free, The halls, from old heroic ages gray,

And the pine has a fringe of softer green, Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low, And the moss looks bright where my step has been. With whose thick orchard blooms the soft winds play, I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh, Send out their inmates in a happy flow,

And called out each voice of the deep-blue sky, Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread With them those pathways—to the feverish bed

From the night bird's lay through the starry time, Of sickness bound; yet, O my God! I bless

In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,

To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes,
Thy mercy that with Sabbath peace hath filled
My chastened heart, and all its throbbings stilled

When the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks.
To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness.

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain;

They are sweeping on to the silvery main, This admirable woman and sweet poetess died on They are flashing down from the mountain-brows, the 16th May 1835, aged forty-one. She was in. They are flinging spray on the forest-boughs, terred in St Anne's church, Dublin, and over her They are bursting fresh from their sparry cares, grave was inscribed some lines from one of her own And the earth resounds with the joy of waves. dirges

Come forth, Oye children of gladness, come!
Calm on the bosom of thy God,

Where the violets lie may now be your home.
Fair spirit ! rest thee now !

Ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye,
Even while with us thy footsteps trode,

And the bounding footstep, to meet me ily;
His seal was on thy brow.

With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay, Dust to its narrow house beneath !

Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay.
Soul to its place on high !
They that have seen thy look in death,

Away from the dwellings of careworn men,
No more may fear to die.

The waters are sparkling in wood and glen;

Away from the chamber and dusky hearth, A complete collection of the works of Mrs The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth; Hemans, with a memoir by her sister, has been Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains, published in six volumes. Though highly popular, And Youth is abroad in my green domains. and in many respects excellent, we do not think that much of the poetry of Mrs Hemans

will descend to The

summer is hastening, on soft winds borne, posterity. There is, as Scott hinted, too many for me I depart to a brighter shore

Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the com; Howers for the fruit more for the ear and fancy, Ye are marked by care, ye are mine no more. than for the heart and intellect. Some of her shorter i go where the loved

who have left you dwell, pieces and her lyrical productions are touching and And the flowers are not Death's—fare ye well, farebeautiful both in sentiment and expression. Her

well! versification is always melodious; but there is an oppressive sameness in her longer poems which

The Homes of England. fatigues the reader; and when the volume is closed, the effect is only that of a mass of glittering images

The stately Homes of England, and polished words, a graceful melancholy and femi

How beautiful they stand ! nine tenderness, but no strong or permanent im- Amidst their tall ancestral trees, pression. The passions are seldom stirred, however O'er all the pleasant land. the fancy may be soothed or gratified. In description, The deer across their greensward bound Mrs Hemans had considerable power ; she was both Through shade and sunny gleam, copious and exact; and often, as Jeffrey has ob- And the swan glides past them with the sound served, 'a lovely picture serves as a foreground to Of some rejoicing stream. some deep or lofty emotion.' Her imagination was chivalrous and romantic, and delighted in picturing

The merry Homes of England ! the woods and halls of England, and the ancient

Around their hearths by night, martial glory of the land. The purity of her mind

What gladsome looks of household love is seen in all her works; and her love of nature, like

Meet in the ruddy light! Wordsworth’s, was a delicate blending of our deep

There woman's voice flows forth in song, inward emotions with their splendid symbols and

Or childhood's tale is told, emblems without.

Or lips move tunefully along

Some glorious page of old.
The Voice of Spring.

The blessed Homes of England !

How softly on their bowers I come, I come! ye have called me long,

Is laid the holy quietness I come o'er the mountains with light and song;

That breathes from Sabbath-hours ! Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth

Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,

Floats through their woods at morn; By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,

All other sounds, in that still time, By the green leaves opening as I pass.

Of breeze and leaf are born.

The cottage Homes of England !

Yet more, the depths have more! Thy waves have By thousands on her plains,

rolled They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,

Above the cities of a world gone by! And round the hamlet-fanes.

Sand hath filled up the palaces of old, Through glowing orchards forth they peep,

Sea-weed o’ergrown the halls of revelry! Each from its nook of leaves,

Dash o'er them, Ocean ! in thy scornful pluy, And fearless there the lowly sleep,

Man yields them to decay! As the bird beneath their eaves.

Yet more ! the billows and the depths have more! The free, fair Homes of England !

High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast ! Long, long, in hut and hall,

They hear not now the booming waters roarMay hearts of native proof be reared

The battle-thunders will not break their rest. To guard each hallowed wall!

Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave! And green for ever be the groves,

Give back the true and brave! And bright the flowery sod,

Give back the lost and lovely! Those for whom Where first the child's glad spirit loves

The place was kept at board and hearth so long ; Its country and its God !

The prayer went up through midnight's breathless

gloom, The Graves of a Household.

And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song!
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o’erthrown-

But all is not thine own!
They grew in beauty, side by side,
They filled one home with glee;

To thee the love of woman hath gone down;
Their graves are severed, far and wide,

Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, By mount, and stream, and sea.

O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown!

Yet must thou hear a voice-Restore the Dead ! The same fond mother bent at night

Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee !
O’er each fair sleeping brow;

Restore the Dead, thou Sea!
She had each folded flower in sight
Where are those dreamers now!

One, ’midst the forests of the west,
By a dark stream is laid-

BERNARD BARTON, one of the Society of Friends, The Indian knows his place of rest,

published in 1820 a volume miscellaneous poems, Far in the cedar shade.

which attracted notice both for their elegant sim

plicity, and purity of style and feeling, and because The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,

they were written by a Quaker. "The staple of the He lies where pearls lie deep;

whole poems,' says a critic in the Edinburgh ReHe was the loved of all, yet none

view, is description and meditation-description of O’er his low bed may weep.

quiet home scenery, sweetly and feelingly wrought One sleeps where southern vines are dressed

out-and meditation, overshaded with tenderness,

and exalted by devotion—but all terminating in Above the noble slain : He wrapt his colours round his breast,

soothing and even cheerful views of the condition

and prospects of mortality' Mr Barton was emOn a blood-red field of Spain.

ployed in a banking establishment at Woodbridge, And one-o'er her the myrtle showers

in Suffolk, and he seems to have contemplated Its leaves, by soft winds fanned;

abandoning his profession for a literary life. On She faded 'midst Italian flowers

this point Charles Lamb wrote to him as follows: The last of that bright band.

Throw yourself on the world, without any rational

plan of support beyond what the chance employ of And parted thus they rest, who played

booksellers would afford you ! Throw yourself Beneath the same green tree;

rather, my dear sir, from the steep Tarpeian rock Whose voices mingled as they prayed

slap-dash headlong upon iron spikes. If you have Around one parent knee !

but five consolatory minutes between the desk and

the bed, make much of them, and live a century in They that with smiles lit up the hall,

them, rather than turn slave to the booksellers. And cheered with song the hearth

They are Turks and Tartars when they have poor Alas ! for love, if thou wert all,

authors at their beck. Hitherto you have been at And nought beyond, on earth !

arm's length from them—come not within their

grasp. I have known many authors want for breadThe Treasures of the Deep.

some repining, others enjoying the blessed security

of a counting-house-all agreeing they had rather What hidest thou in thy treasure-caves and cells,

have been tailors, weavers—what not?-rather than Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main ?

the things they were. I have known some starved, Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-coloured shells,

some go mad, one dear friend literally dying in a Bright things which gleam unrecked of and in vain. I workhouse. Oh, you know not-may you never Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea !

know—the miseries of subsisting by authorship!' We ask not such from thee.

There is some exaggeration here. We have known

authors by profession who lived cheerfully and Yet more, the depths have more! What wealth un- comfortably, labouring at the stated

sum per told,

sheet as regularly as the weaver at his loom, or Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies! the tailor on his board; but dignified with the Thou hast the starry gems, the burning, gold,

consciousness of following a high and ennobling Won from ten thousand royal Argosies.

occupation, with all the mighty minds of past ages Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main! as their daily friends and companions. The bane Earth claims not these again! of such a life, when actual genius is involved, is its uncertainty and its temptations, and the almost And thus, while I wandered on ocean's bleak shore, invariable incompatibility of the poetical tempe- And surveyed its vast surface, and heard its waves roar, rament with habits of business and steady ap- I seemed wrapt in a dream of romantic delight, plication. Yet let us remeniber the examples of And haunted by majesty, glory, and might? Shakspeare, Dryden, and Pope — all regular and constant labourers-and, in our own day, of Scott, Southey, Moore, and many others. The fault is Power and Gentleness, or the Cataract and the more generally with the author than with the book

Streamlet. seller. In the particular case of Bernard Barton,

Noble the mountain stream, however, Lamb counselled wisely. He has not the vigour and popular talents requisite for marketable Bursting in grandeur from its vantage-ground; literature; and of this he would seem to have been

Glory is in its gleam conscious, for he abandoned his dream of exclusive of brightness-thunder in its deafening sound ! authorship. Mr Barton has since appeared before Mark, how its foamy spray, the public as author of several volumes of miscella- Tinged by the sunbeams with reflected dyes, neous poetry, but without adding much to his repu- Mimics the bow of day tation. He is still what Jeffrey pronounced him Arching in majesty the vaulted skies ; ' a man of a fine and cultivated, rather than of a bold and original mind.' His poetry is highly honourable Thence, in a summer-shower, to his taste and feelings as a man.

Steeping the rocks around-0! tell me where

Could majesty and power

Be clothed in forms more beautifully fair?
To the Evening Primrose.

Yet lovelier, in my view,
Fair flower, that shunn'st the glare of day, The streamlet flowing silently serene;
Yet lov'st to open, meekly bold,

Traced by the brighter hue,
To evening's hues of sober gray,

And livelier growth it gives—itself unseen!
Thy cup of paly gold;

It flows through flowery meads,
Be thine the offering owing long

Gladdening the herds which on its margin browse ; To thee, and to this pensive hour,

Its quiet beauty feeds
Of one brief tributary song,

The alders that o'ershade it with their boughs.
Though transient as thy flower.

Gently it murmurs by
I love to watch, at silent eve,

The village churchyard : its low, plaintive tone, Thy scattered blossoms’ lonely light,

A dirge.like melody,
And have my inmost heart receive

For worth and beauty modest as its own.
The influence of that sight.

More gaily now it sweeps
I love at such an hour to mark

By the small school-house in the sunshine bright;
Their beauty greet the night-breeze chill,

And o'er the pebbles leaps,
And shine, 'inid shadlows gathering dark, Like happy hearts by holiday made light.
The garden's glory still.

May not its course express,
For such, 'tis sweet to think the while,

In characters which they who run may read,
When cares and griefs the breast invade,

The charms of gentleness,
Is friendship's animating smile

Were but its still small voice allowed to plead ! In sorrow's dark’ning shade.

What are the trophies gained
Thus it bursts forth, like thy pale cup,

By power, alone, with all its noise and strife,
Glist’ning amid its dewy tears,

To that meek wreath, unstained,
And bears the sinking spirit up

Won by the charities that gladden life?
Amid its chilling fears.

Niagara's streams might fail,
But still more animating far,

And human happiness be undisturbed :
If meek Religion's eye may trace,

But Egypt would turn pale,
Even in thy glimmering earth-born star,

Were her still Nile's o'erflowing bounty curbed!
The holier hope of Grace.
The hope, that as thy beauteous blooin

The Solitary Tomb.
Expands to glad the close of day,
So through the shadows of the tomb

Not a leaf of the tree which stood near me was stirred,
May break forth Mercy's ray.

Though a breath might have mored it so lightly :
Not a farewell note from a sweet singing bird

Bade adieu to the sun setting brightly.
Stanza on the Sca.

The sky was cloudless and calm, except
Oh! I shall not forget, until memory depart,

In the west, where the sun was descending; When first I beheld it, the glow of iny heart;

And there the rich tints of the rainbow slept, The wonder, the awe, the delight that stole o'er me,

As his beams with their beauty were blending. When its billowy boundlessness opened before me.

And the evening star, with its ray so clear,
As I stood on its margin, or roamed on its strand,

So tremulous, soft, and tender,
I felt new ideas within me expand,
Of glory and grandeur, unknown till that hour,

Had lit up its lamp, and shot down from its sphere And my spirit was mute in the presence of power !

Its dewy delightful splendour.
In the surf-beaten sands that encircled it round, And I stood all alone on that gentle hill,
In the billow's retreat, and the breaker's rebound, With a landscape so lovely before me;
In its white-drifted foam, and its dark-heaving green, And its spirit and tone, so serene and still,
Each momeut I gazed, some fresh beauty was seen. Seemed silently gathering o'er me.

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