And when their lives are over, they drop away to rest,
Unconscious of the penal doom, on holy Nature's breast:
No pain have they in dying, no shrinking from decay;
Oh! could we but return to earth as easily as they!

LINES ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY.

'Tis ever thus-'tis ever thus, when Hope has built a bower, Like that of Eden, wreathed about with every thornless flower,

To dwell therein securely, the self-deceiver's trust,

A whirlwind from the desert comes-and "all is in the dust!"

'Tis ever thus 'tis ever thus, that when the poor heart clings

With all its finest tendrils-with all its flexile rings,That goodly thing it cleaveth too, so fondly and so fast, Is struck to earth by lightning, or shattered by the blast.

'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, with beams of mortal blissWith looks too bright and beautiful for such a world as this; One moment round about us, their "Angel lightnings"* play, Then down the veil of darkness drops, and all hath past

away.

'Tis ever thus-'tis ever thus, with creatures heavenly fair

Too finely framed to 'bide the brunt, more earthly natures

A little while they dwell with us - blest ministers of love, Then spread the wings we had not seen, and seek their home above.

* Il lampeggiar del angelico rico.

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.

MISS MITFORD has written pleasant poems and successful tragedies, and yet we did hesitate about introducing her name in our Wreath. Not that we love her poetry less than that of others, but her prose more. And then we felt that we could not do her justice. Rienzi is a splendid production, but it requires to be seen on the stage, in action, to understand its superior excellences-such extracts as our limits allow will only mar its beauties. Her poems, too, have chiefly been written for the annuals, as illustrations of engravings, and, detached from these historical scenes, lose half their interest.

But what matters it? Who does not know and love the author of "Our Village?"-whose charming descriptions have made the rural life of the English villager as familiar to Americans as though we were "neighbors over the way!" In these descriptions Mary Mitford is unrivalled. She has a manner, natural to her, no doubt, but inimitable and indescribable, which sheds interest around the most homely subjects and coarsest characters. Who ever threw by a sketch of hers half read? No one who admired a spring daisy-or that most fragrant blossom, the wall-flower, which beautifies every object, however rough, rude or ruinous, around which it wreathes. And, though she does not trace the motives of conduct very deeply, or attempt to

teach principles of moral duty, yet there is much in her sprightly and warm sketches of simple nature which draws the heart to love the Author of all this beauty; and much in her kind and contented philosophy to promote love and good feelings. She is a philanthropist, for she joys in the happiness of others-a patriot, for she draws the people to feel the beauties and blessings which surround the most lowly lot in that "land of proud names and high heroic deeds."

Well, we must go back to her poesy: that is our present subject. "Rienzi" has placed Miss Mitford in a high rank as a dramatic poetess. It has many powerful passages, and shows a bold fancy, and refined and ingenious taste in its construction and management. There is, also, that gentleness and simplicity in the character of Claudia, and those home descriptions and feelings which reveal the intelligent observer of nature and of the heart. As a historic legend it is sustained with great talent; but this kind of invention, which gathers and combines the pomp of fictitious circumstance around real events and actual personages, we do not consider the loftiest attribute of genius. Minds of the highest order have a creative power, so to speak, compounded of imagination and reason, which can form its legend from the world within the soul. The "Count Basil," of Joanna Baillie, compared with "Rienzi," will illustrate our meaning. The genius of Mary Mitford is like the fairy skill, which can transmute (6 chucky stones" into diamonds: there is a genius which does not need the aid of stones, but can think diamonds.

But if we do not place Mary Mitford among the very highest talent, we consider her one of the brightest living ornaments of female literature. Her descriptions of rural and domestic life are patterns of sentiment and style, which we commend, not for imitation, as that is never well, but for study and admiration to our young ladies. And then her own example is a pattern. She is no longer a very

young lady, but retains the cheerfulness and dispenses around her the happiness of youth. She resides with her father, who is vicar of Reading, in

shire, and manages the domestic duties of lady of the parsonage with the same ease and grace with which she pursues her distinguished literary career.

SELECTIONS FROM “RIENZI. ”

HOME AND LOVE.

Rie. CLAUDIA - nay, start not! Thou art sad to-day ; I found thee sitting idly, 'midst thy maids

A pretty, laughing, restless band, who plied
Quick tongue and nimble finger. Mute, and pale
As marble, those unseeing eyes were fixed
On vacant air; and that fair brow was bent
As sternly, as if the rude stranger, Thought,
Age-giving, mirth-destroying, pitiless Thought,
Had knocked at thy young giddy brain.
Cla. Nay, father,

Mock not thine own poor Claudia.

Rie. Claudia used

To bear a merry heart with that clear voice,
Prattling; and that light busy foot, astir
In her small housewifery, the blithest bee
That ever wrought in hive.

Cla. Oh! mine old home!

Rie. What ails thee, lady-bird?

Cla. Mine own dear home!

Father, I love not this new state; these halls,
Where comfort dies in vastness; these trim maids,
Whose service wearies me. Oh! mine old home!
My quiet, pleasant chamber, with the myrtle,

Woven round the casement; and the cedar by,
Shading the sun; my garden overgrown

With flowers and herbs, thick-set as grass in fields;
My pretty snow-white doves; my kindest nurse;
And old Camillo. -Oh! mine own dear home!

Rie. Why, simple child, thou hast thine old fond nurse, And good Camillo, and shalt have thy doves,

Thy myrtles, flowers, and cedars; a whole province
Laid in a garden an' thou wilt.
Hast thou not learnt thy power?

My Claudia,

Ask orient gems,
Diamonds, and sapphires, in rich caskets, wrought
By cunning goldsmiths; sigh for rarest birds,
Of farthest Ind, like winged flowers to flit
Around thy stately bower; and, at thy wish,
The precious toys shall wait thee. Old Camillo !
Thou shalt have nobler servants,

Electors, princes! Not a bachelor

emperors, kings,

In Christendom but would right proudly kneel

To my fair daughter.

Cla. Oh! mine own dear home!

Rie. Wilt have a list to choose from? Listen, sweet!

If the tall cedar, and the branchy myrtle,

And the white-doves, were tell-tales, I would ask them
Whose was the shadow on the sunny wall?
And if, at eventide they heard not oft
A tuneful mandoline, and then a voice,

Clear in its manly depth, whose tide of song

O'erwhelmed the quivering instrument; and then

A world of whispers, mixed with low response,

Sweet, short, and broken as divided strains

Of nightingales.

Cla. Oh, father! father! [runs to him, and falls upon his neck.]

Rie. Well!

Dost love him, Claudia?

Cla. Father!