Her face thou makest a heaven, and her eyes Thou cheer'st the prisoner in his lonely cell, Ambition blighted seeks thee, and the shade; Remembrance thee her voice hath made, At whose sweet call, as to some tale, [to sail. We, listening, turn our bark 'mong pleasures past Thou spread'st the canvass, and with gentlest winds Impell'st the vessel, till she finds Some genial spot, where bends the yew, Or cypress waves o'er friends who long have bid adieu. Thou sooth'st the weary and uplift'st the low; Where now had been the warlike of old Troy, Thou art the eye of pity, that surveys Man wandering through life's mystic ways; His loves, his laughs, his tears: like him, thou art a dream. Forgive, blest Muse, my want of skill to sing Thy wonderous praise. Oh round me fling The mantle of sweet thought; and strew, As erst, with flowers, the path I pensive still pursue. LOVE. THERE is a flower that never changeth hue; The youth conjures it in the summer shade, He flies from scenes that his chaste dreams invade. The very fields its presence own in spring; The hills re-echo with a song of gladness; The heavens themselves their store of tribute bring, And in this flower all things renounce their sadness. O Love! where is the heart that knows not thee? Thou only bloomest everlastingly! A DREAM. METHOUGHT my love was dead. Oh, 't was a night There seem'd henceforth the haven of my bliss; To that I turn'd with fervency of soul, And pray'd that morn might never break again, But o'er me that pure planet still remain. Alas! o'er it my vows had no control. The lone star set: I woke full glad, I deem, To find my sorrow but a lover's dream. LIFE. AH! what is life! a dream within a dream; Life is a race where slippery steeps arise, WALTON. WALTON! When, weary of the world, I turn At fortune, who, though lavish of her store, SCENES OF CHILDHOOD. AND do I then behold again the scene, Where once I sported when a wanton child; The mead, the church, the streamlet running wild, With here and there a fairy spot between, Smiling, as there rude storm had never been? Alas! how changed are we who once did rove, Calder, thy then enchanted banks along; Retiring now to the sequester'd grove, Now cheerful hearkening to the accustom'd song That rose at eventide these vales among! [wear; The charm and hope of youth the green leaves "Tis only man that blossoms and decays, To know no second spring. I thoughtful gaze With dream of years long past, and drop a tear. SIDNEY. SIDNEY, thou star of beaming chivalry, Of acts heroic that adorn her page, Where sit the warbling sisters who attend SOLACE DERIVED FROM BOOKS. HENCE care, and let me steep my drooping spirit In streams of poesy, or let me steer Imagination's bark 'mong bright scenes, where Mortals immortal fairy-land inherit. Ah me! that there should be so few to merit In his youth's spring that life is what it seems, Till sorrows pierce his soul, and storms deter it From resting there as erst! Ye visions fair, Of Genius born, to you I turn, and flee Far from this world's ungenial apathy; Too blest, if but awhile I captive share The presence of such beings as engage [less page. The heart, and burn through Shakspeare's match TO A BIRD. SWEET captive, thou a lesson me hast taught For one in dull abode like thine, I trace, A MOTHER SINGING. HARK, 'tis a mother singing to her child Those madrigals that used her ears to greet, When she, an infant like that spring-flower sweet, Lent her charm'd ears to nurse, or mother mild, That sang those nursery stories strange and wildOf knights, of robbers, and of Fairy queens Dwelling in castles mid enchanted scenesThe songs which plain antiquity beguiled. Or is her theme of him, her lord, whose bark Is ploughing, 'neath his guidance, Indian seas; Or far detained by polar skies, that freeze His glad return? She, tuneful as the lark [smile, That warbling soars, though Phoebus cease to Lifts her soft voice, and sings, though sad the while. POESY. DIVINEST Poesy! without thy wings Life were a burden, and not worth receiving; Youth fadeth like a dream, care keeps us grieving, Early we sicken at all pleasure brings. Thou only art the ever genial maid, That strew'st with flowers the winter of our way; Companion meet in city or in shade, Magician sweet whose wand all things obey; Thou peoplest with divinities the grove, Picturest old times, and with creative skill, Mould'st men and manners to thy heavenly will. Mistress of sympathy and winning love, Oh be thou ever with me, with me-wholly, To smile when I am gay, to sigh when melancholy. ΤΟ AND what was Stella but a haughty dame? The courtly Waller statelier verse to frame? Or Beatrice, whom Dante deified? Or she of whom all Italy once rung, Compared with thee, who art our age's pride, And the sweet theme of many a poet's tongue? There is a nobleness that dwells within, Fairer by far than any outward feature; A grace, a wit to gentleness akin, That would subdue the most unloving creature. These beauties rare are thine, most matchless maid, Compared with which, theirs were but beauty's shade. ROUEN. BRIGHT was the moon as from thy gates I went, Surpassing in magnificence that seat I still shall mingle with thy ancient throng; Shall pace thy marble halls, and gaze among The Gothic splendours of thy once bright day, When the first Francis was thy guest, and thou Thyself didst wear a crown upon thy brow! PIETY. METHOUGHT I heard a voice upon me call, MRS. NORTON. CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH NORTON is a granddaughter of RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN, and the inheritor of his genius. While she was an infant, her father, THOMAS SHERIDAN, Sought the renovation of a shattered constitution in the tropical seas, but unsuccessfully, for four years after leaving England he died at the Cape of Good Hope, whence his widow returned home, and, living in seclusion, devoted herself with untiring assiduity to the education of her children, the author of The Dream, and another daughter, now the Hon. Mrs. PRICE BLACKWOOD, author of The Irish Emigrant's Lament and other popular songs. These sisters exhibited an almost unexampled precocity. They rivalled the celebrated Misses DAVIDSON of this country in the earliness and perfection of their mental develop ment. At twelve CAROLINE SHERIDAN Wrote verses which even now she would not be ashamed to see in print, and at seventeen she finished The Sorrows of Rosalie, which gave abundant promise of the reputation she has since acquired. Two years afterward she was married to the Hon. GEORGE CHAPPLE NORTON, a brother to Lord GRANTLEY. Mr. NORTON proposed for Miss SHERIDAN when she was sixteen; but her mother postponed the contract three years, that the daughter might herself be better qualified to fix her choice. In this period she became acquainted with one whose early death alone prevented a union more consonant to her feelings; and when Mr. NORTON renewed his proposal he was accepted. The unhappiness of this union is too well known to be passed over in silence. Ingenuous and earnest as the poetical nature invariably is, trustful, ardent, and reliant upon its own intrinsic worthiness, it is too often regardless of those conventional forms which become both a barrier and a screen to the less pure in heart. Occupying the most enviable position in society, surpassing most of her sex as much in personal beauty as in genius, it were a wonder had she escaped the attacks of envy and malevolence. While Lord MELBOURNE was prime minister, urged on by the political ene mies of that nobleman, Mr. NORTON instituted a prosecution on a charge involving her fidelity. All the low arts which well-feed attorneys and a malignant prosecutor could devise were put in requisition. Forgery, perjury, the searching scrutiny of private papers, the exhibition of the most thoughtless and trivial incidents and conversations in her history, were resorted to. But all were unavailing, She passed the ordeal with her white robes unsullied by the slightest stain. An acquittal by the jury and the people, however, poorly atoned the injustice of the accusation. Mrs. NORTON has been styled the BYRON of her sex. Though she resembles that great poet in the energy and mournfulness so often pervading her pages, it would be erroneous to confound her sorrowful craving for sympathy, womanly endurance, resignation, and religious trust, with the refined misanthropy of Childe Harold. She feels intensely, and utters her thoughts with an impassioned energy; but they are not the vapourings of a sickly fancy, nor the morbid workings of undue self-love; they are the strong and healthful action of a noble nature abounding in the wealth of its affections, outraged and trampled upon, and turning from its idols to God when the altar at which it worshipped has been taken away. Mrs. NORTON now lives in comparative retirement, admired by the world, and idolized by the few admitted to her friendship. Besides the Sorrows of Rosalie, The Undying One, and The Dream, (the last and best of her productions,) she has written many shorter poems of much beauty, which have probably been more widely read than the works of any poetess except Mrs. HEMANS. The poetry of Mrs. NORTON is often distinguished for a masculine energy, and always for grace and harmony. She has taste, an affluent fancy, and an unusual ease of expression. Her principal fault is diffuseness; she writes herself through, giving us all the progress of her mind and the byplay of her thought. Her recent works are, however, more compressed and carefully finished than those of an earlier date. DEDICATION OF THE DREAM, TO THE DUCHESS OF SUTHERLAND. ONCE more, my harp! once more, although I thought Whose lot is cast amid that busy world And Fancy's generous wing is faintly furl'd; To thee-whose friendship kept its equal truth Through the most dreary hour of my embitter'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 harbour'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 dissentWhen, slander'd and malign'd, I stood apart, From those whose bounded power hath wrung, not crush'd, my heart. Then, 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 gavest 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 But clung the closer when I stood forlorn, [years, 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; Mem'ry, 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; 46 To thee the sad denial still held true, And, though my faint and tributary rhymes Shall set some value on his votive lay, EXTRACT FROM THE DREAM. OH, Twilight! Spirit that does render birth To dim enchantments; melting heaven with earth, Leaving on craggy hills and running streams A softness like the atmosphere of dreams; Thy hour to all is welcome! Faint and sweet Thy light falls round the peasant's homeward feet, Who, slow returning from his task of toil, Sees the low sunset gild the cultured soil, And, tho' such radiance round him brightly glows, Marks the small spark his cottage window throws; Still as his heart forestalls his weary pace, Fondly he dreams of each familiar face, Recalls the treasures of his narrow life, His rosy children and his sunburnt wife, To whom his coming is the chief event Of simple days in cheerful labour spent. The rich man's chariot hath gone whirling past, And those poor cottagers have only cast One careless glance on all that show of pride, Then to their tasks turn'd quietly aside; But him they wait for, him they welcome home, Fond sentinels look forth to see him come; The fagot sent for when the fire grew dim, The frugal meal prepared are all for him; For him the watching of that sturdy boy, For him those smiles of tenderness and joy, For him-who plods his sauntering way along, Whistling the fragment of some village song! TO MY BOOKS. SILENT companions of the lonely hour, And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take,— My native language spoke in friendly tone, 2 H TWILIGHT. Ir is the twilight hour, The daylight toil is done, And the last rays are departing Of the cold and wintry sun. It is the time when friendship Holds converse fair and free. It is the time when children Dance round the mother's knee. But my soul is faint and heavy, With a yearning sad and deep, By the fireside lone and dreary I sit me down and weep! Where are ye, merry voices, Whose clear and bird-like tone, Some other ear now blesses, Less anxious than my own? Where are ye, steps of lightness, Which fell like blossom-showers? Where are ye, sounds of laughter, That cheer'd the pleasant hours? Through the dim light slow declining, Where my wistful glances fall, I can see your pictures hanging Against the silent wall;They gleam athwart the darkness, With their sweet and changeless eyes, But mute are ye, my children! No voice to mine replies. Your old home's former mirth? ye With the memory of me? Round whom, oh! gentle darlings, Do your young arms fondly twine, Does she press you to her bosom Who hath taken you from mine? Oh! boys, the twilight hour Such a heavy time hath grown,— Would be trivial-would be welcome- On the water's changeful breast; 1 That the high priest of her nation Was the babe she sought to hide. No! in terror wildly flying, She hurried on her path: Her swoln heart full to bursting Of woman's helpless wrath; Of that wrath so blent with anguish, When we seek to shield from ill Those feeble little creatures Who seem more helpless still! Ah! no doubt in such an hour Her thoughts were harsh and wild; The fiercer burn'd her spirit The more she loved her child; No doubt, a frenzied anger Was mingled with her fear, When that prayer arose for justice Which God hath sworn to hear. He heard it! From His heaven, In its blue and boundless scope, He saw that task of anguish, And that fragile ark of hope; Of her young child's early death, From the well-springs of her heart, God's mercy re-uniting Those whom man had forced apart! Nor was thy wo forgotten, Whose worn and weary feet Were driven from thy homestead, Through the red sand's parching heat; Poor Hagar! scorn'd and banish'd, That another's son might be Sole claimant on that father, Who felt no more for thee. Ah! when thy dark eye wander'd, And saw no fountain wave, When thy southern heart, despairing, No shadow of relief; But to cast the young child from thee, But the Lord of Hosts was nigh! From the fountain's living spring," |