THE HEBREW MOTHER. THE moon was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain, And softly parting clusters of jet curls. To bathe his brow. At last the Fane was reach'd, Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear Turn'd from the white-robed priest, and round her arm "Alas! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me; And silver cords again to earth have won me; "How the lone paths retrace where thou wert playing So late, along the mountains, at my side? And I, in joyous pride, By every place of flowers my course delaying, "And oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted, Will it not seem as if the sunny day Turn'd from its door away? While through its chambers wandering weary-hearted, "Under the palm-trees thou no more shalt meet me, When from the fount at evening I return, With the full water-urn; Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings greet me, "And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee, Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed? Wilt thou not vainly spread Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee, A cry which none shall hear? "What have I said, my child? - Will He not hear thee, And in the hush of holy midnight near thee, "I give thee to thy God - the God that gave thee, And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee, And thou shalt be His child. "Therefore, farewell! I go, my soul may fail me, As the hart panteth for the water-brooks, Yearning for thy sweet looks, But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me ; SABBATH SONNET. How many blessed groups this hour are bending The halls, from old heroic ages gray, Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low, Like a free vernal stream. I may not tread With them those pathways, Of sickness bound; to the feverish bed yet oh, my God! I bless Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath fill'd THE POETRY OF THE PSALMS. * NOBLY thy song, O minstrel ! rush'd to meet With trumpet voice thy spirit called aloud, With the deep worship of a living soul. Dublin, April, 1835. *This and the preceding, are the two last strains, the dying strains of this sweet Poetess. Truly her mind seemed breathing inspired notes, while her pure spirit was stealing gently away to join the angelic choir in that "better land," where sorrow and death may not enter." JOANNA BAILLIE.* If the genius of Mrs. Hemans is best characterized by the "Glorious Rose," this "sister of Shakspeare," as she has been significantly styled, may be likened to the splendid Aloe flower, that opens but once in a century; so rare, indeed, that it is regarded rather as a wonder, than a blessing. The power of Miss Baillie's genius seems concentrated in one burning ray — the knowledge of the human heart. She has illustrated this knowledge, with the cool judgment of the philosopher, and the pure warm feelings of the woman, in her celebrated Plays on the Passions. We have sometimes doubted, whether, in selecting the Drama as her path of literature, she judged wisely; we have thought that as an essayist or a novelist she might have made her great talents more effective in that improvement of society which she seems to have had so deeply at heart, and have won for herself, if not so bright a wreath of fame, a more extensive and more popular influence. In dramatic composition, however, Joanna Baillie is unrivalled by any female writer; and she is the only woman * There is an American edition of the "complete poetical works of Miss Baillie," published at Philadelphia, in one large elegant volume. This, however, does not comprise her last " Plays on the Passions." |