Its vast columnar temple, swells a wail
For her, who o'er the dim cathedral's arch,
The quivering sun-beam on the cottage-wall,
Or the sere desert, pour'd the lofty chant
And ritual of the muse:-who found the link
That joins mute nature, to ethereal mind,
And made that link, a melody.

The vales

Of glorious Albion, hoard thy tuneful fame,-
And those green cliffs, where erst the Cambrian bards
Swept their indignant lyres, exulting tell

How oft thy fairy foot in childhood climb'd
Their rude, romantic heights. Yet was the couch
Of thy last slumber, in yon verdant isle
Of song and eloquence, and ardent soul

Which loved of lavish skies,—tho' bann'd by fate,
Seem'd as a type of thine own varied lot,
The crown'd of genius, and the child of woe.-
For at thy breast, the ever-pointed thorn
Did gird itself in secret, 'mid the gush
Of such unstain'd, sublime, impassion'd song,
That angels poising on some silver cloud
Might listen 'mid the errands of the skies,
And linger, all unblamed.—

How tenderly

Doth Nature draw her curtain round thy rest,
And like a nurse, with finger on her lip,
Watch that no step disturb thee, and no hand
Profane thy sacred harp. Methinks, she waits
Thy waking, as some cheated mother hangs
VOL. I. -3

O'er the pale babe, whose spirit death hath stolen, And laid it, dreaming, on the lap of heaven.

Said we, that thou art dead?-We dare not. No, For every mountain-stream and shaded dell Where thy rich echoes linger, claim thee still, Their own undying one. To thee, was known Alike, the language of the fragile flower And of the burning stars.—God taught it thee. So, from thy living intercourse with man, Thou shalt not pass, until the weary Earth Drops her last gem into the doom's-day flame. Thou hast but taken thy seat with that blest choir Whose harmonies thy spirit learn'd so well

Through this low, darken'd casement, and so long Interpreted for us.

Why should we say

Farewell to thee, since every unborn age
Shall mix thee with its household charities?—
The hoary sire shall bow his deafen'd ear,
And greet thy sweet words with his benison,
The mother shrine thee as a vestal-flame

In the lone temple of her sanctity,

And the young child shall take thee by the hand, And travel with a surer step to Heaven.

L. H. SIGOURNEY.

MEMOIR

OF

THE LIFE AND WRITINGS

OF

MRS. HEMANS.

BY HER SISTER.

Not for the brightness of a mortal wreath,
Not for a place 'mid kingly minstrels dead,
But that, perchance, a faint gale of thy breath,
A still small whisper in my song hath led
One struggling spirit upwards to thy throne,
Or but one hope, one prayer:- - for this alone
I bless thee, O my God!

From "A Poet's Dying Hymn," by Mrs. HEMANS

(27)

ΤΟ

COLONEL SIR HENRY BROWNE, K. C. H.

THESE PAGES,

WRITTEN UNDER HIS ROOF,

WHICH HAS ALWAYS BEEN A REFUGE FOR THE SORROWFUL,

ARE DEDICATED,

BY HIS SURVIVING SISTER,

IN REMEMBRANCE OF HER,

WHO, DURING MANY YEARS OF TRIAL,

FOUND HER BEST EARTHLY SOLACE

IN HIS CARE AND AFFECTION.

(28)

MEMOIR

OF

MRS. HE MANS.

PERHAPS there never was an individual who would have shrunk more sensitively from the idea of being made the subject of a biographical memoir, than she of whom, by a strange fatality, so many imperfect notices have been given to the world. The external events of her life were few and unimportant; and that inward grief which pervaded and darkened her whole existence, was one with which "a stranger intermeddleth not." The gradual developement of her mind may be traced in the writings by which she alone wished to be generally known. In every thing approaching to intrusion on the privacies of domestic life, her favourite motto was, "Implora pace;" and those to whom her wishes were most sacred-in whose ears still echo the plaintive tones of her death-bed injunction, "Oh! never let them publish any of my letters!"—would fain, as far as regards all personal details, have "kept silence, even from good words;" and in this spirit of reverential forbearance, would have believed they were best fulfilling her own affecting exhortation,

"Leave ye the Sleeper with her God to rest."1

'See "The Farewell to the Dead."

3*

(29)