felt so much as if I wanted a large leaf to wrap me up and shelter me. Still, one cannot but feel grateful for kindness, and much was shown me. I should have told you that Woodstock is now the seat of Mr. and Lady Louisa Tighe. Amongst other persons of the party was Mr. Henry Tighe, the widower of the poetess. He had just been exercising, I found, one of his accomplishments in the translation into Latin of a little poem of mine; and I am told that his version is very elegant. We went to the tomb, the grave of a poetess,' where there is a monument by Flaxman it consists of a recumbent female figure, with much of the repose, the mysterious sweetness of happy death, which is to me so affecting in monumental sculpture. There is, however, a very small Titania-looking sort of figure with wings, sitting at the head of the sleeper, which I thought interfered with the singleness of effect which the tomb would have produced: unfortunately, too, the monument is carved in very rough stone, which allows no delicacy of touch. That place of rest made me very thoughtful; I could not but reflect on the many changes which had brought me to the spot I had commemorated three years since, without the slightest idea of ever visiting it; and, though surrounded by attention and the appearance of interest, my heart was envying the repose of her who slept there." 1

'It is interesting to compare the ideal visit to "the grave of a poetess," described in the little poem so named in the Records of Women, with the real one commemorated in the lines " Written after visiting a tomb near Woodstock," which were published

"Mr. Tighe has just sent me his Latin translation of my lines, 'The Graves of a Household.' It seems very elegant, as far as I can venture to judge, but what strikes me most is the concluding thought, (so peculiarly belonging to Christianity), and the ancient language in which it is thus embodied :

'Si nihil ulterius mundo, si sola voluptas

Esset terrenis-quid feret omnis Amor?'

"I suppose the idea of an affection, powerful and spiritual enough to overcome the grave (of course the beauty of such an idea belongs not to me, but to the spirit of our faith), is not to be found in the loftiest strain of any classic writer."

Under the influence of similar feelings with those expressed in the last quotation, Mrs. Hemans thus alluded to her own lyric―" The Death Song of Alcestis," which was written at this time.

"It was with some difficulty that I refrained from making Alcestis express the hope of an immortal reunion: I know this would be out of character, and yet could scarcely imagine how love, so infinite in its

in the National Lyrics. The same train of feeling may be traced in both-the same "mournful iteration."

"O love and song! though of heaven your powers,
Dark is your fate in this world of ours."

But in each solemn picture, "the day-spring from on high" breaks through the "mists of earth;" and "visions of brighter things" win us to heavenly contemplation.

The sonnet "On Records of immature Genius," (published in Mrs. Hemans's Poetical Remains), was written after reading some of the earlier poems of Mrs. Tighe, which had been lent to her in MS.

nature, could ever have existed without the hope (even if undefined and unacknowledged) of a heavenly country, an unchangeable resting-place. This awoke in me many other thoughts with regard to the state of human affections, their hopes and their conflicts in the days of the gay religions, full of pomp and gold,' which, offering, as they did, so much of grace and beauty to the imagination, yet held out so little comfort to the heart. Then I thought how much these affections owed to a deeper and more spiritual faith, to the idea of a God who knows all our inward struggles, and pities our sufferings. I think I shall weave all these ideas into another little poem, which I will call Love in the Ancient World."

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"I do not think I mentioned to you having seen at Woodstock a large and beautifully painted copy of Raphael's Great Madonna,' as it is called-the one at Dresden. I never was enabled to form so perfect an idea of this noble work before. The principal figure certainly looks like the 'Queen of Heaven,' as she stands serenely upon her footstool of clouds;' but there is, I think, rather a want of human tenderness in her calm eyes, and on her regal brow. I visited yesterday another lovely place, some miles from us

'This design was afterwards partly, and but partly, fulfilled, in the Antique Greek Lament, which was intended as one of a series of poems, illustrating the insufficiency of aught but Christianity to heal and comfort the broken in heart; and its all-sustaining aid to those," who, going through this vale of misery, use it for a well," and apply to its living waters for "the strengthening and refreshing of their souls."

Kilfane; quite in a different style of beauty from Woodstock-soft, rich, and pastoral-looking. Such a tone of verdure, I think, I never beheld anywhere: It was quite an emerald darkness, a gorgeous gloom brooding over velvet turf, and deep silent streams, from such trees as I could fancy might have grown in Armida's enchanted wood. Some swans upon the dark waters made me think of that line of Spenser's, in which he speaks of the fair Una, as

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Making a sunshine in the shady place.'

The graceful play of water-birds is always particularly delightful to me ;-those bright creatures convey to my fancy a fuller impression of the joy of freedom than any others in nature-perhaps because they are lords of two elements."

"I heard a beautiful remark made by the ChiefJustice, when I met him at Kilfane. I think it was with regard to some of Canova's beautiful sculpture in the room, that he said—' Is not perfection always affecting?' I thought he was quite right; for the highest degree of beauty in any art certainly always excites, if not tears, at least the inward feeling of tears."

"Is that strong passion for intellectual beauty a happy or a mournful gift, when so out of harmony with the rest of our earthly lot? Sometimes I think of it in sadness, but oftener it seems to me as a sort of rainbow, made up of light and tears, yet still the pledge of happiness to come." - From one of Mrs. Hemans's letters, written in 1829.

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"I will now describe to you the scene I mentioned in my last letter, as having so much impressed me. It was a little green hill, rising darkly and abruptly against a very sunny background of sloping cornfields and woods. It appeared smooth till near the summit, but was there crested—almost castellated indeed-by what I took for thickly-set, pointed rocks; but, on a nearer approach, discovered to be old tombstones, forming quite a little city of the silent.' I left our car to explore it, and discovered some ruins of a very affecting character: a small church laid open to the sky, forsaken and moss-grown; its font lying overturned on the green sod; some of the rude monuments themselves but ruins. One of these, which had fallen amongst thick heath and wild-flowers, was simply a wooden cross, with a female name, and the inscription- May her soul rest in peace!' You will not wonder at the feeling which prompted me to stoop and raise it up again. My memory will often revert to that lonely spot, sacred to the hope of immortality, and touched by the deep quiet of the evening skies."

"Kilkenny is a singular-looking old place, full of ruins, or rather fragments of ruins, bits of old towers and abbey-windows; and its wild lazzaroni-looking population must, I should think, be tremendous when in a state of excitement. Many things in the condition of this country, even during its present temporary quiet, are very painful to English feeling. It is scarcely possible to conceive bitterness and hatred existing in the human heart, when one sees nature