From cheer deficient, shall his consort's brow
Clear up propitious:-the unlucky guest
In silence dines, and early slinks away.
I well remember when a child, the awe
This day struck into me; for then the maids,

I scarce knew why, looked cross, and drove me from them :
Nor soft caress could I obtain, nor hope
Usual indulgences; jelly or creams,
Relic of costly suppers, and set by

For me their petted one; or buttered toast,
When butter was forbid; or thrilling tale
Of ghost or witch, or murder-so I went
And sheltered me beside the parlour fire :
There my dear grandmother, eldest of forms,
T'ended the little ones, and watched from harm,
Anxiously fond, though oft her spectacles
With elfin cunning hid, and oft the pins

Drawn from her ravelled stockings, might have soured
One less indulgent.—

At intervals my mother's voice was heard,
Urging despatch: briskly the work went on,
All hands employed to wash, to rinse, to wring,
To fold, and starch, and clap, and iron and plait.
Then would I sit me down and ponder much

Why washings were. Sometimes through hollow bowl
Of pipe amused we blew, and sent aloft

The floating bubbles; little dreaming then

To see, Mongolfier, thy silken ball

Ride buoyant through the clouds-so near approach

The sports of children and the toils of men.

Earth, air, and sky, and ocean, hath its bubbles,

And verse is one of them-this most of all.

DIRGE.

PURE spirit! O where art thou now?
O whisper to my soul!

O let some soothing thought of thee,
This bitter grief control!

"T is not for thee the tears I shed,
Thy sufferings now are o'er;
The sea is calm, the tempest past,
On that eternal shore.

No more the storms that wreck thy peace,

Shall tear that gentle breast;

Nor Summer's rage, nor Winter's cold,
Thy poor, poor frame molest.

Thy peace is scaled, thy rest is sure,
My sorrows are to come;
Awhile I weep and linger here,
Then follow to the tomb.

And is the awful veil withdrawn,
That shrouds from mortal eyes,
In deep impenetrable gloom,
The secrets of the skies?

O, in some dream of visioned bliss,
Some trance of rapture, show
Where, on the bosom of thy God,
Thou rest'st from human woe!

Thence may thy pure devotion's flame
On me, on me descend;
To me thy strong aspiring hopes,
Thy faith, thy fervors lend.

Let these my lonely path illume,
And teach my weakened mind
To welcome all that's left of good,
To all that's lost resigned.

Farewell! With honor, peace, and love,

Be thy dear memory blest! Thou hast no tears for me to shed, When I too am at rest.

AN ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.

GOD of my life! and author of my days!
Permit my feeble voice to lisp thy praise;
And trembling, take upon a mortal tongue
That hallowed name to harps of seraphs sung.
Yet here the brightest seraphs could no more
Than veil their faces, tremble, and adore.
Worms, angels, men, in every different sphere
Are equal all,-for all are nothing here.
All nature faints beneath the mighty name,

Which nature's works through all their parts proclaim
I feel that name my inmost thoughts control,
And breathe an awful stillness through my soul;
As by a charm, the waves of grief subside;
Impetuous Passion stops her headlong tide:
At thy felt presence all emotions cease,
And my hush'd spirit finds a sudden peace,
Till every worldly thought within me dies,

And earth's gay pageants vanish from my eyes Till all my sense is lost in infinite,

And one vast object fills my aching sight.

But soon, alas! this holy calm is broke;
My soul submits to wear her wonted yoke;
With shackled pinions strives to soar in vain,
And mingles with the dross of earth again.
But he, our gracious Master, kind as just,
Knowing our frame, remembers man is dust.
His spirit, ever brooding o'er our mind,
Sees the first wish to better hopes inclined;
Marks the young dawn of every virtuous aim,
And fans the smoking flax into a flame.
His ears are open to the softest cry,
His grace descends to meet the lifted eye;
He reads the language of a silent tear,
And sighs are incense from a heart sincere.
Such are the vows, the sacrifice 1 give;
Accept the vow, and bid the suppliant live:
From each terrestrial bondage set me free;
Still every wish that centres not in thee;
Bid my fond hopes, my vain disquiets cease,
And point my path to everlasting peace.

If the soft hand of winning Pleasure leads
By living waters, and through flowery meads,
When all is smiling, tranquil, and serene,
And vernal beauty paints the flattering scene,
O teach me to elude each latent snare,
And whisper to my sliding heart-Beware!
With caution let me hear the syren's voice,
And doubtful, with a trembling heart, rejoice.
If friendless, in a vale of tears I stray,
Where briars wound, and thorns perplex my way,
Still let my steady soul thy goodness see,
And with strong confidence lay hold on thee;
With equal eye my various lot receive,
Resigned to die, or resolute to live;
Prepared to kiss the sceptre or the rod,
While God is seen in all, and all in God.

I read his awful name, emblazoned high

With golden letters on th' illumined sky;

Nor less the mystic characters I see

Wrought in each flower, inscribed in every tree;
In every leaf that trembles to the breeze

I hear the voice of God among the trees;
With thee in shady solitudes I walk,
With thee in busy crowded cities talk;

In every creature own thy forming power,
In each event thy providence adore.
Thy hopes shall animate my drooping soul,
Thy precepts guide me, and thy fears control:
Thus shall I rest, unmoved by all alarms,
Secure within the temple of thine arms;
From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free,
And feel myself omnipotent in thee.

Then when the last, the closing hour draws nigh,
And earth recedes before my swimming eye;
When trembling on the doubtful edge of fate
I stand, and stretch my view to either state;
Teach me to quit this transitory scene
With decent triumph and a look serene;
Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high,
And having lived to thee, in thee to die.

MRS HEMANS.

THE poetry of Mrs Hemans displays much originality, and genius of a very high order. Her whole manner and style are original, and so many have imitated its peculiarities that she may be considered in some respects as the founder of a new school in the English poetry. She delights in the description of scenes that possess in themselves a picturesque solemnity, or that cluster around them deep feelings of associated moral interest. The words which she uses are singularly poetical, and she combines them with thrilling and appropriate imagery, though not extensive in its range.

The peculiar province of her power seems to lie in the expression of those feelings which are connected with the ideas of one's home and native country. Her lays are full of fondness for the paternal roof,-the free domestic hearth,-and of devotion to "the father land;" they breathe a heart stirring spirit of noble, elevated, sublime patriotism.

A general characteristic of her productions is their touching and sustained pathos. In her tragedies this quality rises to an uncommon degree of richness and power, and in her shorter pieces she has exhibited a more easy, natural, and frequent command of it, perhaps than any other poet.

Her poetry is full of elevated moral feeling, and combines, in a very peculiar manner, inspiring energy of thought with a winning grace and delicacy of sentiment.

SCENE FROM THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA.

Scene-A Street in Valencia. Several Groups of Citizens and Soldiers, many of them lying on the Steps of a Church. Arms scattered on the Ground around them.

An old Citizen. The air is sultry, as with thunder-clouds. I left my desolate home, that I might breathe More freely in heaven's face, but my heart feels With this hot gloom o'erburthen'd. I have now No sons to tend me. Which of you, kind friends, Will bring the old man water from the fount, To moisten his parch'd lip?

Second Citizen.

[A Citizen goes out. This wasting siege, Good Father Lopez, hath gone hard with you! "T is sad to hear no voices through the house, Once peopled with fair sons!

Third Citizen.

Why better thus,

Than to be haunted with their famished cries,

E'en in your very dreams!

Old Citizen.

Heaven's will be done!

These are dark times! I have not been alone

In my affliction.

Third Citizen (with bitterness).

this thought

Why, we have but

Left for our gloomy comfort!-And 't is well!
Ay, let the balance be a while struck even
Between the noble's palace, and the hut,

Where the worn peasant sickens!-They that bear
The humble dead unhonor'd to their homes,
Pass now i' th' street no lordly bridal train,
With its exulting music; and the wretch
Who on the marble steps of some proud hall
Flings himself down to die, in his last need
And agony of famine, doth behold

No scornful guests, with their long purple robes,
To the banquet sweeping by. Why, this is just!
These are the days when pomp is made to feel
Its human mould!

Fourth Citizen.

Heard you last night the sound

Of Saint Jago's bell?-How sullenly
From the great tower it peal'd ? -

Fifth Citizen.

Ay, and 't is said

No mortal hand was near when so it seem'd
To shake the midnight streets.

Old Citizen.

Too well I know

The sound of coming fate!-'T is ever thus
When death is on his way to make it night