ed for herself, and had resolved to follow out in her writings. Mrs Jameson has truly said, that "the poetry of Mrs Hemans could only have been written by a woman." In all her thoughts and feelings she is intensely and entirely feminine; and there is a finish and completeness about her composition, singularly accordant with the fine perception, and delicate discrimination of the female mind. In her poetry religious truth and intellectual beauty meet together, and blend in delightful union; and assuredly it is not the less calculated to refine the taste and exalt the imagination, because it addresses itself only to the better feelings of our nature. Over all her pictures of humanity are spread the glory and the grace reflected from purity of morals, dignity of sentiment, beauty of imagery, sublimity of religious faith, and ardour of patriotism; and, turning from the dark and degraded, whether in circumstance or conception, she seeks out those verdant oases in the desert of human life, on which the wings of her imagination may most pleasantly rest. ergy resembles that of the dove, 66 Her en Pecking the hand that hovers o'er its mate," and her exaltation of thought is not of that daring kind, which doubts, and derides, or even questions, but which clings to the anchor of hope, and looks forward with faith and reverential fear. Mrs Hemans has written much, and on a variety of subjects; and, as with all authors of similar versatility, her strains possess different degrees of excellence. Independently of this uncertain criterion, her different works will be differently estimated, as to their relative value, by different minds. But we hesitate not to assert, that she has bequeathed to posterity many compositions, which the English language "will not willingly let die." The music of her words has interwoven itself with the national heart, and cannot fail to be breathed from the lips of our children's children. A DESPONDENCY AND ASPIRATION. Per correr miglior acqua alza le vele, Omai la navicella del mio Intelletto. DANTE. My soul was mantled with dark shadows, born Its phantoms hung around the star of morn, A cloud-like weeping train; Through the long day they dimm'd the autumn-gold On all the glistening leaves; and wildly roll'd, When the last farewell flush of light was glowing, Across the sunset sky; O'er its rich isles of vaporous glory throwing One melancholy dye. A And when the solemn Night Came rushing with her might Of stormy oracles from caves unknown, Then with each fitful blast Prophetic murmurs pass'd, Wakening or answering some deep Sybil tone, Far buried in my breast, yet prompt to rise With every gusty wail that o'er the wind-harp flies. "Fold, fold thy wings," they cried, "and strive no more, Faint spirit, strive no more!—for thee too strong Are outward ill and wrong, And inward wasting fires !-Thou canst not soar Free on a starry way Beyond their blighting sway, At Heaven's high gate serenely to adore! How shouldst thou hope Earth's fetters to unbind? O passionate, yet weak! O trembler to the wind! "Never shall aught but broken music flow From joy of thine, deep love, or tearful woe; Such homeless notes as through the forest sigh, From the reed's hollow shaken, When sudden breezes waken Their vague wild symphony: No power is theirs, and no abiding-place In human hearts; their sweetness leaves no trace,— Born only so to die! "Never shall aught but perfume, faint and vain, On the fleet pinion of the changeful hour, A moment's essence breathe; Thy life, whose trampled flower Into the blessed wreath Of household charities no longer bound, "So fade, fade on! thy gift of love shall cling, A coiling sadness, round thy heart and brain, A silent, fruitless, yet undying thing, All sensitive to pain! |