CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH NORTON.*

THE Hon. Mrs. Norton is one of those favored mortals who, by birthright, inherit talents, and therefore, for her to become an authoress was not considered wonderful, as is usually the case with female writers. The grand-daughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, could be no ordinary woman. Distinguished for beauty and gracefulness, among the gay circle in which she was native, as the "queenly Dahlia" is among the garden flowers, she added to the list of her accomplishments, that more dazzling, because less common endowment, genius, early displayed, and hitherto steadily improving. At the age of twelve years she composed "The Dandies' Ball," a poetical description of a little book, then quite the rage. "The Sorrows of Rosalie," was her next production, issued in 1829, about two years after her marriage. Since that period she has published several works, besides editing for some time past " The Court Journal."-The longest Poem of Mrs. Norton's-"The Un

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* There is a handsome English edition of her Poems in two volumes only a small selection from these have been reprinted in America. Her Prose works, "The Wife, and Woman's Reward," "The Coquette," and her shorter stories are all familiar to American readers, as well as to the London public; and her fugitive lyrical compositions are very popular.

dying One," was evidently written with much thought; the inclination of her mind leading her, doubtless, to the effort, as one which would be more distinguished, than short lyrical compositions. The subject was not well suited to her powers; it requires the deep, daring energy of a Byron or a Shelley to portray the dark, despairing and unholy passions which such a being as Isbal must have indulged. Nevertheless, our poetess has not failed-the story is skilfully drawn out, and there are many touches of tenderness and love which are inimitable. But we better like her short poems: in these she displays more freedom and grace, more of the true poetical fervor which can invest common feelings and natural objects with the light of song, making treasures of these simple and humble things which the heart will hoard, and the memory retain. There is a resemblance between the poetic characteristics of Mrs. Norton and those of Barry Cornwall- both excel in the descriptive; both have great facility of versification; and there is a similar delicacy in their taste and fancy. But Barry Cornwall inclines sometimes to odd conceits and quaint old phrases, the affectation or the effect of more profound learning than any fair poetess would be likely to display. Yet Mrs. Norton has a mind which might be greatly improved by study. Hers is not that fire-fly genius which shines sweetly on the fresh grass, or resting on a rose-bush in full blossom; but which is chilled and sunk by the first dark storm or cold frost. She has strength as well as beauty and sprightliness in her lay. Some of her prose writings show great power of portraying character, as well as of delineating the manners of society. In short, few of our literary ladies at her age, twenty-seven, have written so much and so well as Mrs. Norton. She has made literature her amusement along the rose-strewed path of life she will find it a resource and solace amid its thorns.

ALL IS FORGOTTEN.

How strange that earth, our earth should share
So little in our crime and care!

The billows of the treacherous main
Gape for the wreck, and close again
With daring smiles, as if the deep
Had whelm'd not with eternal sleep
Many and many a warm young heart,
Which swell'd to meet, and bled to part.
The battle-plain its verdant breast

Will show in bright and sunny vest,

Although its name is now a word,

Through sobs, and moans, and wailing heard;

And many mourn'd for from afar,

There died the writhing death of war.
Yea, e'en the stream, by whose cool side,
Lay those who thirsted for its tide,
Yearning for some young hand of yore,
Wont in bright hours, with smiles to pour
The mantling wine of him whose blood
Is mixing with the glassy flood —
Ev'n that pure fountain gushes by
With all its former brilliancy;
Nor bears with it one tint to show
How crimson it began to flow.
And thus an echo takes the tone
Of agony; and when 't is gone,
Air, earth and sea forget the sound,
And all is still and silent round.

And thus upon the cherished grave

The sunbeams smile, the branches wave;
And all our tears for those who now are not,
Sink in the flowery turf- and are forgot!

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WE SHALL MEET NO MORE!

We shall meet no more on the sunny hill,

Where the lonely wild flower springs and dies; We shall meet no more by the murmuring rill, Where the blue cool waters idly rise; The sunshine and flowers all bright remain In their lonely beauty, as of yore;

But to me 't will never be bright again

We shall meet no more! we shall meet no more!

We shall meet no more in the lighted halls
Amid happy faces and gay young hearts;
I may listen in vain as each footstep falls,
I may watch in vain as each form departs!
There are laughing voices, but thy young tone
Its cheerful greeting hath ceased to pour;
Thy form from the dancing train is gone—

We shall meet no more! we shall meet no more!

THE WIDOW AND HER SON.

I SAW a widow by her cherished son,

Ere all of life, and light, and hope was gone-
When the last dying glance was faintly raised,
Ere death with withering power the brightness glazed
Of those deep heavenly eyes: a glance which seem'd
To ask her, if the world where he had dream'd
Such dreams of happiness with her, must be
Forsaken in the spring-tide of his glee;

If he indeed must die. I saw her take
His hand and gaze, as if her heart would break,
On his pale brow and languid lips of grace,
And wipe the death-dew gently from his face.
I saw her after, when the unconscious clay
Deaf to her wild appeals, all mutely lay,

With brow upturn'd, and parted lips, whose hue
Was scarce more pale than hers, who met my view.
She stood, and wept not in her deep despair,
But press'd her lips upon his shining hair,
With a long bitter kiss, and then with grief,
Like hers of old, who pray'd and found relief—
She groan'd to God, and watch'd to see him stir;
But, ah! no prophet came, to raise him up for her!

THE POET.

I SAW the dark and city-clouded spot,
Where, by his busy patrons all forgot,
The young, sad poet, dreams of better days,
Andgives his genius forth in darken'd rays.
Chill o'er his soul, gaunt poverty hath thrown

Her veil of shadows, as he sighs alone;

And, withering up the springs and streams of youth, Left him to feel misfortune's bitter truth,

And own with deep impassion'd bitterness,

Who would describe, must faintly feel, distress.
Slowly he wanders, with a languid pace,
To the small window of his hiding-place;
Pressing with straining force, all vainly now,
His hot, weak fingers on his throbbing brow;
And seeking for bright thoughts, which care and pain
Have driven from his dim and wilder'd brain.
He breathes a moment that unclouded air,