All day the earthen floors have felt their feet MEDITATIONS ON SPRING. The great sun, Scattering the clouds with a resistless smile, And when thy feet descended on the earth, Scarce could they move amid the clustering flowers, To hail her bless'd deliverer!-Ye fair trees, How are ye changed, and changing while I gaze! Sporting in tree and air, more beautiful Than the young lambs, that from the valley side A NIGHT AT SEA. It is the midnight hour: the beauteous sea, Calm as the cloudless heaven, the heaven discloses, While many a sparkling star, in quiet glee, Far down within the watery sky reposes. As if the Ocean's heart were stirr'd With inward life, a sound is heard, Like that of draser comoring in his sleep: The wa, I ween, cannot be fann'd But God hath will'd that the sky-born breez Should ever sport and play. And from her silent throne looks down, As upon children of her own, On the waves that lend their gentle breast In gladness for her couch of rest! TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. JAMES GRAHAME, THE POET OF SCOTLAND. How beautiful is genius when combined With holiness! Oh, how divinely sweet The tones of earthly harp, whose chords are touch'd By the soft hand of Piety, and hung Upon Religion's shrine, there vibrating With solemn music in the ear of God! And must the bard from sacred themes refrain? That, kneeling in the silence of his tent, Or on some moonlight hill, the shepherd pour'd More touching far than ever poet breathed Have heard in Albion, land of every lay. * Such glory, Grahame! thine. Thou didst despise By gorgeous epithets, all idly heap'd, On theme of earthly state, or, idler still, By tinkling measures and unchasten'd lays, Didst fervently invoke, and, led by her As Bethlehem shepherds heard when Christ was born. THE EVENING CLOUD-A SONNET. A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun, While every breath of eve that chanced to blow Emblem, methought, of the departed soul, CAROLINE ANNE SOUTHEY, 1787-1854. No English poetess has touched more tenderly the chords of the heart, or has gone down deeper into its well-springs, than Caroline Anne Bowles, afterwards Mrs. Southey. She was the daughter of Charles Bowles, Esq., of Buckland, and was born in 1787. She early showed great marks of genius, and especially a fondness for poetry. In 1820 she published her first work, Ellen Fitzarthur, a Metrical Tale; and shortly after, The Widow's Tale, and other Poems. These were followed by Birthday and other Poems; Solitary Hours, Poems; Tales of the Factories; Chapters on Churchyards; and a collection of prose and poetical pieces. On the 5th of June, 1839, she became the second wife of the poet Southey, to whose declining and infirm age she ministered with the tenderness and sweet sympathy which kindred taste, admiring affection, and Christian love inspired, doing all that mortal power could do to render the last, sad years of the illustrious poet easy and comfortable. She wrote for him when he could no longer write, read to him when he was not allowed to read himself, and watched over him with untiring assiduity when he was no longer sensible of the value and devotion of these services. He died on the 21st of March, 1843, after which she spent most of her years in close retirement, and died in 1854. "No man," says Mr. Moir, "could have written such poetry as Mrs. Southey; at least no man has ever yet done so; it breathes of 'a purer ether, a diviner air' than that respired by the soi-disant lords of the creation; and, in its freedom from all moral blemish and blot, from all harshness and austerity of sentiment, from all the polluting taints which are apt to cleave to human thought, and its expansive sympathy with all that is holy, just, and of good report, it elevates the heart even more than it delights the fancy. We doubt if the English language possesses any thing more profoundly pathetic toan Mra Southey's four tales, The Young Gray Head, The Murder Glen, Walter and William, and The Evening Walk; and I envy not the heart-construction of that family group of which the father could read these compositions aloud to his children either himself with an unfaltering voice, or without exciting their tears." The following lyrics need no commendation from the critic: they reach every heart. MARINER'S HYMN. Launch thy bark, mariner! Look to the weather bow, Breakers are round thee; What of the night, watchman? No land yet,-all's right.” Be wakeful, be vigilant,- At an hour when all seemeth How! gains the leak so fast? Slacken not sail yet SANCTIFIED AFFLICTIONS. I weep, but not rebellious tears; My days of youth and health are o'er; To think I'm left on earth alone. Blind eyes, fond heart, poor soul, that sought The bonds that held thee down so fast. As link by link was rent away, My heart wept blood, so sharp the pain; That temporal loss, eternal gain; A holier sphere, a happier place, And meet rejoicing round His throne The following is an analysis of one of her most pathetic tales, entitled The Young Gray Head. It opens with a cottager warning his wife to keep the children from school that morning, from the signs of an impending storm: THE YOUNG GRAY HEAD. I'm thinking that to-night, if not before, There'll be wild work. Dost hear old Chewton roar? It's brewing up, down westward; and look there! And such a sudden thaw! If rain comes on, As threats, the waters will be out anon. The children themselves join in this request; but the mother resolves that they should set out,-the two girls, Lizzy and Jenny, the one five and the other seven. The dame's will was law; so, One last fond kiss "God bless my little maids!" the father said; Prepared for their journey, they depart, with the mother's admonitions to the elder: "Now, mind and bring "Don't stay Jenny safe home," the mother said. If not o'erflow'd, the stepping-stones will be. With her own warmest shawl. "Be sure," said she, "To wrap it round, and knot it carefully (Like this), when you come home,—just leaving free One hand to hold by. Now, make haste away Good will to school, and then good right to play." The mother watched them as they went down the lane, overburdened with |