Margaret Winthrop, Anne Hutchinson, and Mary Dyer, each estimable in her separate way, not assuming to be "perfect women," but labouring steadily in their vocation till the hour came when they lay at rest in that Western Land where they had turned for shelter, and the silence of the grave enwrapt them. There let them sleep: "Hark! how the sacred Calm, that breathes around, In still small accents whispering from the ground, "No more, with reason and thyself at strife, LOUGHBOROUGH, April 1862. KARL. MRS ROBERT BROWNING'S LAST POEMS.+ We accept this volume of the Last Poems, written by Mrs Browning, with gratitude and sadness; sadness that is scarcely willing to express itself in words. She was endeared to us by her writing, the generous and lion-hearted woman, whose thoughts were ever noble, whose indignant scorn was poured out unreservedly on whatever seemed to her degrading and tyrannical, but whose love for what is beautiful and pure was manifested no less powerfully. Hers was truly a winning sweetness of melody, though not seldom she chose a rugged and unmusical abruptness. Her strange, wild, unearthly fervour enabled her sometimes to soar to the highest range of poetic rapture, and sometimes, in tearfulness and humility, to crouch tremblingly at the foot of the Cross, and speak her sorrow and her hope, her anguish and her faith, in broken sobs and in prayer, that was directed to a more than human ear. Her growth in knowledge of art and command of her resources, if not rapid, had been sure, and no one who compares her early efforts, "The Seraphim, and other Poems," with her largest work of later years, "Aurora Leigh," or with the "Last Poems," which are now before us, will deny her credit for laborious perseverance in correcting many faults of taste, which are visible in her first writings. Unflagging was her growth in culture of the mind, absorbing into it all the varied knowledge of our day, yet never omitting to pay homage to the great sages of antiquity, by studying the master-pieces which they have bequeathed to us. In "Aurora Leigh," we find much self-por traiture it matters not whether conscious or unconscious-so that Gray's Elegy in a Country Churchyard; suppressed stanzas. Last Poems, by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. London: Chapman & Hall, 193 Piccadilly. 1862. Pp. 142. we have in it a record of the intellect, ambition, and proud self-willed character of the girl-howsoever affectionate and confiding at heart; gradually developing into the large and richly-dowered nature of the woman, craving for love, though struggling against its claims; but, throughout, the veritable Poet. "Aurora Leigh," a rich storehouse of such thoughts as have rarely been given to the world by one of the gentler sex, remains the chief work by which posterity will judge Mrs Browning. It may be conceded that occasionally she gave way to a vehemence of language that seemed and was unfeminine. Strength ceased to be strength, when no longer spontaneous, and resembled coarseness, but the few faults of this kind observable in her writings are atoned for by many triumphant outbursts of right feeling, that are winning sympathy in wish and effort from those awakened by her to justice and humanity; so that we would rather have her exactly as she chose to be, sooner than curb her into a mere model of propriety at the risk of silencing her nobler utterances. Such as she is alas, to say, as she was! it will be long before we meet another to equal her in genius and generous enthusiasm for the cause of the oppressed. Three distinct groups are visible, of the poems in the present volume. First, come the Miscellaneous Poems, "Little Mattie," "A False Step," "Void in Law," "Lord Walter's Wife," "Bianca among the Nightingales," "My Kate," "A Song for the Ragged Schools of London," "May's Love," "Amy's Cruelty," "My Heart and I," "the Best thing in the World," "Where's Agnes?" "De Profundis," and "A Musical Instrument." Second, and chief in quantity, follow fourteen poems connected with the Regeneration of Italy. Third, are added a number of Translations or Paraphrases, mostly from the Greek, Theocritus, Apuleius, Hesiod, Homer, &c. The paraphrases on Heine, with which the volume closes, have a playfulness and graceful ease that delightfully leads us into the bye-paths of fancy and recollection of childhood or earliest manhood. With one flaw only to injure its effect, the false rhyme of "visit" and "in it," the poem commencing "My child, we were two children," has all the liveliness of an original: "PARAPHRASES ON HEINE. [The last Translation.] I. "Out of my own great woe Which rustle their feathers in throngs " They found the way, for their part, To say what they saw in her heart." II. "Art thou indeed so adverse? "O recreant lips unthankful, Of the man who so well has kissed you III. "My child, we were two children, "We crowed like cocks, and whenever "The boxes about our courtyard "The neighbour's old cat often We made her a bow and courtsey, Each with a compliment in it. "After her health we asked, Our care and regard to evince (We have made the very same speeches "We also sate and wisely "How love and truth and believing "The children's games are over, The world, the good games, the good times, The belief, and the love, and the truth." The concluding poem of the series has a melancholy interest, as being her "Last Translation;" the little touches of pathos in it have now gained a strange directness of personal application for at least one who survives : IV. "Thou lovest me not, thou lovest me not! Let me look in thy face, and no king in his place "Thou hatest me well, thou hatest me well- Let it reach me a kiss, and, however it is, V. "My own sweet love, if thou in the grave, Then will I go down by the side, and crave "I kiss and caress and press thee wild, "The Dead stand up, the midnight calls, They dance in airy swarms We two keep still where the grave-shade falls, "The Dead stand up, the Judgment-day But nought shall trouble us where we stay VI. "The years they come and go, "Could I see thee but once, one day, The political poems, regarding Italy, will not be such general favourites as the rest, but have the stamp of Mrs Browning's peculiar genius, and attest her sincere love for the cause of Freedom and Unity in that " woman country, wooed not wed," concerning which Robert Browning also has spoken so lovingly. There is much to admire in her portrait of Garibaldi; brave, self-sacrificing warrior of the old heroic type; a man little fitted to cope with the astute diplomatists, who ill understood his rugged grandeur. "Parting Lovers," and a "Forced Recruit," are memorable and ably-finished poems. In the praises of Cavour we sympathise but little; the subtle, cool, and not very scrupulous statesman, whose conduct in regard to Nice is difficult to be palliated by any plea of expediency when at the sacrifice of honour. We better love to contemplate the simple strength of the soldier, who went back to his home at Caprera, unburdened by worldly honours, and perhaps with an embittered knowledge of having been insulted, wronged by the king whose cause he had aided so efficiently. And yet it was better so, better not to be repaid by men, save in the way that men of selfish and sensual nature generally repay their benefactors. Garibaldi trusted his cause to a higher power. He had not wrought for the sake of winning personal applause or wealth, and needed not to complain when he beheld what was the requital of his patriotism. Nor did he complain. Italy, if neither Victor Emmanuel nor Cavour, knew his worth, and spoke gratitude by the love and valour of her bravest sons, who prepared to rally round him whensoever and wheresoever he might choose to raise again the standard of Freedom. And the end is not yet. Tender and unaffected are several of the miscellaneous poems; some of the playful fancies of One who gave us "Ellie in the Meadow," with her swan's nest among the reeds. "The North and the South"- -a grand burst of praise to Hans Andersen, such as none but a poet could give, and few save a poet be worthy to receiveformed the last song which this inspired singer gave to the world. "Little Mattie" seems a partial ré-embodiment of the thought already more beautifully given by Robert Browning in his "Evelyn Hope," (vide "Men and Women," vol. 2.) "Amy's Cruelty," with "May's Love," have a distinctive grace, and the following is exquisite of its kind: "FALSE STEP. "Sweet, thou hast trod on a heart. Pass! there's a world full of men; Must do such things now and then. "Thou only hast stepped unaware,— And why should a heart have been there, "It was not a stone that could trip, "Twas merely the heart of a friend. "And yet, peradventure, one day "And seeking around thee in vain From hundreds who flattered before, "Thou'lt sigh, very like, on thy part, 'Of all I have known or can know, I wish I had only that Heart I trod upon ages ago!'" Our especial favourite of all, and most near to perfection, is "A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT. "What was he doing, the great god Pan, |