solemn account. So full and entire was she, in this consecration, as to resist the most tempting offers to write prose, though moved to their acceptance by pecuniary need. She felt that she had a higher and holier calling, and with unwavering confidence pursued its upward promptings.

"Her soul was as a star, and dwelt apart."

the

Both critics and casual readers have united in pronouncing her poetry to be essentially feminine. The whole sweet circle of the domestic affections, hallowed ministries of woman, at the cradle, the hearth-stone, and the death-bed, were its chosen themes. Where have the disinterested, self-sacrificing virtues of her sex

"the eye

Lit by the soul's deep truth,"

been depicted with such graphic power? Who else, with a single dash of the pencil, has portrayed at once, the lot of woman, and her refuge?

"To love on, through all things:- therefore-pray.'

It has been alleged that the warlike imagery, so predominant in her poetry, is a departure from its feminine elements. Yet was this the emanation of an indigenous, or an acquired taste? May it not be viewed as the result of classic studies? of warm affections for beloved relatives engaged in the military profession? of early sympathies, following a favourite brother to battle-fields, in that foreign land whose picturesque scenery and romantic history enkindled her enthusiasm? Was not the chivalric strain, though

frequent and diffuse, rather an episode, than the keytone of her spirit? While expatiating, with apparently all a warrior's daring, it was known that she literally shrank from every sight of suffering, or infliction of pain. In the midst of these adopted themes, how involuntarily does her genius reveal the woman! Essaying to walk with stately step to the tournament, is it not enforced to pause and gather the wild flowers that spring up by the way? It indeed girded on the harness of the mail-clad knight, but it did not "rejoice afar off, at the thunder of the captains, and the shouting." It dwelt not with minuteness and delight, like Homer, on the carnage of the scythe-armed chariot, or the cleaving sword. It preferred to give the cooling draught to the panting warrior, strike the note of joy, at his return to his native halls, or breathe the mournful requiem over his tomb. It threw a shelter over the budding affections, even amid the whirlwind of war. It sought not to portray its heroes amid the fury of the fight, but in the mild glow of those virtues or sympathies which bind them to their fellow-men. Even Cœur de Lion, is not represented as marshalling his crusaders, or exulting in the might of the strongest sword, but bending over the bier of his father, in passionate remorse for his filial disobedience :

"How mightily he strove

-

With the wakings of his breast;

But there's more in late repentant love
Than steel can keep supprest;

And tears brake forth, at last, like rain, -
Men held their breath for awe,

For his face was seen by his warrior-train,
And he reck'd not that they saw."

"Thy silver hairs I see,

So still, -so sadly bright,

-

And father! father!-but for me,
They had not been so white."

The stately Ferdinand of Arragon, in the pride of a monarch's splendour, turns from the city which had just yielded to his besieging arms, to lament over his fallen brother:

66

My brother! Oh my brother! thou art gone, the true and

brave,

The haughty joy of victory hath died upon thy grave,-
There are many round my throne to bow, to march when I

lead on,

There was one to love me in the world,—my brother, thou art gone."

Bernardo del Carpio passes not before us in his glory, when his "banner led the spears amid the hills of Spain," — but in the deep pathos of grief, over his treacherously-slain father,

“When covering, with his steel-gloved hands, his darkly mournful brow,

'No more, now.'""

there is no more,' he cried, 'to lift the sword for,

It would be easy to multiply instances, where the woman's voice, speaking from under the warrior's helmet, proved, that though the bearing might be noble, the garb and purpose were uncongenial. From the thunders of the god of war, she recoiled, even while she wielded them, and relapsing into her native attitude of

"Dejected Pity, by his side,

Her soul-subduing voice applied."

With what a free breath, and sunny smile, does she turn to the simple themes of nature and affection, like the shepherd-boy, springing from the heavy armour of the moody king of Israel, to gather the smooth stones of the clear, tuneful brook. Which of those high-wrought, chivalric strains, reveals the deep gushing of the secret heart, like the fearful nightwatch of the devoted Gertrude?

"Her hands were clasp'd, her dark eyes raised,
The breeze swept back her hair;

Up to the fearful wheel she gazed, -
All that she loved was there.

The night was round her, clear and cold,
The holy heaven above,

Its pale stars watching, to behold

The might of earthly love.

She wiped the death-damps from his brow,
With her pale hands, and soft,

Whose touch, upon the lute-chords low,

Had still'd his heart so oft."

In which of the spirit-stirring, belligerent lays, does the trembling sweetness of the poet's own soul, irresistibly steal out, as in "The Voice of Spring," "The Graves of a Household," "The Homes of England," "The Treasures of the Deep," the thrilling sigh of the "Palm-Tree," or the full, sustained, sublime inspiration of the "Forest Sanctuary?" It would be a delightful task to pursue this inquiry, and to illustrate, by extracts, the opinion which has been advanced; but the limits of this Essay forbid it, and dismemberment of poems so perfect, is too much like exhibiting the splendour of the diamond by its fragments or its dust.

The genius of Mrs. Hemans was as pure and feminine in its impulses, as in its out-pourings. That ambition which impels the man of genius to 66 scorn delights, and live laborious days," that he may walk on the high places of the world's renown, and leave a name which shall be as a trumpet-tone to all time, woke no answering echo in her bosom. Sympathy, not fame, was the desire of her being.

"Fame hath a voice, whose thrilling tone
Can bid the life-pulse beat,

As when a trumpet's note hath blown,
Calling the brave to meet:

But mine, let mine,- —a woman's breast,

By words of home-born love be bless'd."

The approbation of the good, and the assurance that her efforts had imparted pleasure, comfort or instruction, were indeed precious rewards. Still, they were rewards, rather than motives stimulating to action. Even these, with true woman's nature, she valued more for the sake of others than for her own. How beautifully does she express this sentiment to Miss Baillie!" Your praise will ever be valuable, yet it comes to me now, mingled with mournfulness, for the ear to which it ever brought the greatest delight, is closed. The last winter deprived me of my truest, tenderest friend, - that mother, by whose unwearied spirit of hope and love, I have been encouraged to bear on, through all the obstacles that have beset my path." And when the celebrity which she never sought, had extended itself to the western, as well as to her own hemisphere, she writes feelingly in a letter to Miss Mitford," Will you think me weak, when I