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After a youth by woes o'ercast,
After a thousand sorrows past,
The lovely Mary once again
Set foot upon her native plain;
Knelt on the pier with modest grace,
And turn'd to heaven her beauteous face.
'Twas then the caps in air were blended,
A thousand thousand shouts ascended,
Shiver'd the breeze around the throng.
Gray barrier cliffs the peals prolong;
And every tongue gave thanks to heaven,
That Mary to their hopes was given.
Her comely form and graceful mien
Bespoke the lady and the queen;
The woes of one so fair and young
Moved every heart and every tongue.
Driven from her home, a helpless child,
To brave the winds and billows wild;
An exile bred in realms afar,
Amid commotions, broils, and war.
In one short year, her hopes all cross'd-
A parent, husband, kingdom, lost!
And all ere eighteen years had shed
Their honors o'er her royal head.
For such a queen, the Stuarts' heir-
A queen so courteous, young, and fair-
Who would not every foe defy ?
Who would not stand-who would not die!
Light on her airy steed she sprung,
Around with golden tassels hung:
No chieftain there rode half so free,
Or half so light and gracefully.
How sweet to see her ringlets pale
Wide waving in the southland gale,
Which through the broom wood blossoms flew,
To fan her cheeks of rosy hue !
Whene'er it heaved her bosom's screen,
What beauties in her form were seen!
And when her courser's mane it swung,
A thousand silver bells were rung.
A sight so fair, on Scottish plain,
A Scot shall never see again!
When Mary turn'd her wondering eyes
On rocks that seem'd to prop the skies;
On palace, park, and battled pile;
On lake, on river, sea, and isle ;
O'er woods and meadows bathed in dew,
To distant mountains wild and blue;
She thought the isle that gave her birth,
The sweetest, wildest land on earth.


Bird of the wilderness,

Blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!

Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place-
Oh to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is thy lay, and loud,

Far in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.

Where, on thy dewy wing,

Where art thou journeying ? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen,

O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,

Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim,
Musical cherub, soar, singing away!

Then, when the gloaming comes,

Low in the heather blooms Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!

Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place-
Oh to abide in the desert with thee!


How lovely is this wilder'd scene,

As twilight from her vaults so blue Steals soft o'er Yarrow's mountains green,

To sleep embalm'd in midnight dew! All hail, ye hills, whose towering height,

Like shadows, scoops the yielding sky! And thou, mysterious guest of night,

Dread traveller of immensity! Stranger of heaven! I bid thee hail!

Shred from the pall of glory riven, That flashest in celestial gale,

Broad pennon of the King of Heaven ! Art thou the flag of wo and death,

From angel's ensign-staff unfuria ? Art thou the standard of His wrath

goud in

No latent evil we can deem,

Bright herald of the eternal throne !
Whate'er portends thy front of fire,

Thy streaming locks so lovely pale-
Or peace to man, or judgments dire,

Stranger of heaven, 1 bid thee hail!
Where hast thou roam’d these thousand years ?

Why sought these polar paths again,
From wilderness of glowing spheres,

To fling thy vesture o’er the wain?
And when thou scalest the Milky Way,

And vanishest from human view,
A thousand worlds shall hail thy ray

Through wilds of yon empyreal blue!
Oh! on thy rapid prow to glide!

To sail the boundless skies with thee,
And plough the twinkling stars aside,

Lil foam-bells on a tranquil sea !
To brush the embers from the sun,

The icicles from off the pole;
Then far to other systems run,

Where other moons and planets roll?
Stranger of heaven! Oh let thine eye

Smile on a rapt enthusiast's dream;
Eccentric as thy course on high,

And airy as thine ambient beam !
And long, long may thy silver ray

Our northern arch at eve adorn;
Then, wheeling to the east away,

Light the gray portals of the morn!

FELICIA HEMANS, 1793–1835.

Felicia DOROT EA Browne was the daughter of a Liverpool merchant, and was born on the 25th of September, 1793. From her earliest years she was remarkable for her extreme beauty and precocious talent. At the age of

seven, father was unsuccessful in business and removed to Wales. llere the young

her match proved a very unhappy one; and after they had lived together six years, in 1818 Captain Hemans, whose health had been impaired by a military life, determined to try the effects of a southern elimate, and went to Italy. Mrs. Hemans, with her five boys, repaired to her maternal roof, and the two never met again. She continued her studies in her rural retreat, acquiring several languages, and in 1819 obtained a prize of £50 for the best poem upon Sir William Wallace. In 1820, she published the “Skeptic,” which was favorably noticed in the “Edinburgh Monthly Magazine." In June, 1821, she obtained the prize awarded by the Royal Society of Literature for the best poem on the subject of “Dartmoor.”! The Voice of Spring,” perhaps the best known and the best loved of all her lyrics, was written early in the year 1823. In the latter part of the same year, she published “The Vespers of Palermo," a tragedy, which was considered a failure; and in 1826 appeared her best poem, “The Forest Sanctuary,”? which was brought out in conjunction with the “ Lays of Many Lands." Every successive year brought fresh proofs of her widely-extending fame. In 1828, having suffered the loss of her mother-an aMiction which went down into the very depths of her soul-she removed to Wavertree, near Liverpool, and soon gave to the world “Lays of Leisure Hours,” “National Lyrics," and other poems. In 1829, she made a visit to Scotland, and was most cordially received by Sir Walter Scott, Jeffrey, and other distinguished literary characters of the Scottish metropolis.3

Early in 1830, she published her volume of “Songs of the Affections,” and in the month of June she accomplished a project which she had long had at heart, of making a visit to the Lakes of Westmoreland, and to the poet Wordsworth. On returning thence, she went to reside in Dublin, where her brother, Major Browne, was settled. She entered very little into the general society of Dublin, but devoted most of her time to the eduortion of her children. Her health, however, was quite feeble, so that, in her own language, “the exertion of writing became quite irksome.” Early in 1834 appeared her “Hymns for Childhood," which was soon followed by "Scenes and Hymns of Life," and both were noticed very favorably in the periodicals of the day.' But her course of life was nearly run; a cold, taken by being out too late in the evening, terminated in a fever, and she breathed her last, without a pain or struggle, on the 16th of May, 1835. Her remains were deposited in a vault beneath St. Anne's Church, Dublin, and over her grave some lines, from one of her own dirges, were inscribed :

* In a letter to a friend on the occasion, she thus pleasantly writes: “What with surprise, bustle, and pleasure, I am really almost bewildered. wish you could have seen ho chil. dren when the prize was announced to them yesterday. Arthur sprang from his · Latin Exercise,' and shouted, . Now I am sure mamma is a better poet ihan Lord Byron."

1 This is a tale of a Protestant convert, who fled from the persecution of his native land (Spain) to America, taking with him his wife and child. The wife, deeply loving her husband, but not a convert to his faith, exhausted with previous anxiety and sorrow, dies at sea, and the husband and child reach their “ Forest Sanctuary" in the New World, where the father recounts to the con the story of his persecutions, exile, and bereavement.

a In the “ Edinburgh Review for October, 1929, appeared an article on the poetry of Mrs. Hemans, from the masterly pen of Jeffrey, who, with great delicacy and discrimination, touches upon the peculiar characteristics of her style. - Almost all her poems," writes this high authority, -are rich with fine descriptions, and studded over with images of visible beauty. But these are never idle ornaments; all her pomps have a meaning, and her flowers and her gems are arranged, as they are said to be among Eastern lovers, so as to speak the language of truth and passion. This is peculiarly remarkable in some little pieces, which seemn at first sight to be purely descriptivo-hut are soon found to tell upon the heart, with a deep moral and pathetie impression."

* Of the beauty of this scenery, she thus writes: “Yesterday I rode round Grasmere and Rydal Lake. It was a glorious evening, and the imaged heavens in the waters more completely filled my mind, even to overtlowing, than I think any object in nature ever did before.

“ Calm on the bosom of thy God,

Fair spirit! rest thee now!
E'en while with us thy footsteps trod,

His seal was on thy brow.
Dust to its narrow house beneath !

Soul to its place on high !
They that have seen thy look in death

No more may fear to die."

Though Mrs. Hemans may be inferior to some of the female poets of the nineteenth century in some particulars—to Joanna Baillie, for instance, in vigor of conception, to Caroline Bowles in simple pathos, or to Mary Howitt in fresh nature, yet, as a female writer, influencing not only the female but the general mind, considering too the different styles in which she has excelled and how much she has written, she is undoubtedly entitled to rank above all her contemporaries. This pre-eminence has been acknowledged, not only in England but in our own country. In her poetry, religious truth, moral purity, intellectual beauty, beautiful imagery, and melodious versification, all meet together: and while it addresses itself to the better feelings of our nature, it at the same time exalts the imagination and refines the taste. “Her forte," says a discriminating critic, “lay in depicting whatever tends to beautify and embellish domestic life, by purifying the passions and by sanctifying the affections; making man an undying and unquenchable spirit, and earth, his abode, a holy place."

From one who has written so much and so well it is difficult to know what to extract, and where to stop; but the following pieces will, I believe, give a pretty correct idea of her general style.


The rose was rich in bloom on Sharon's plain,
When a young mother with her first-born thence
Went up to Zion, for the boy was vow'd
Unto the Temple-service ;-by the hand

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