TO A SKYLARK. Higher still and higher, From the earth thou springest, The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are bright'ning, Thou dost float and run; Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven, In the broad day-light Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. All the earth and air 473 The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see, As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden, In the light of thought, To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower : Like a glow worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view: Like a rose embowered Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves: Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass : * * FROM LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS. THE PLAIN OF LOMBARDY. Beneath is spread, like a green sea, The waveless plain of Lombardy, Which her hoary sire now paves And before that chasm of light, Column, tower, and dome, and spire, Shine like obelisks of fire, Pointing with inconstant motion From the altar of dark ocean To the sapphire-tinted skies: From the marble shrines did rise, THE PLAIN OF LOMBARDY. Or an air-dissolvéd star, Mingling light and fragrance, far By the glory of the sky; Be it love, light, harmony, Odour, or the soul of all, Which from heaven like dew doth fall, 475 FELICIA HEMANS. (1793-1835.) FEMALE authorship in England is of comparatively modern date. After the period when the maiden queen condescended to figure as a little occidental luminary in poetry, a single star or two glitters in the sky of the 17th century; they begin to assemble in greater numbers in the 18th, and in the conclusion of that century and the commencement of the present, the literature of England presents the names of many females in all departments of knowledge, of pre-eminent or of respectable merit.3 1 The zenith. 2 These lines exemplify the felt relation of Shelley's mind towards external nature, when "his spirit did not darken the stream of his verse;" they contain all things that are beautiful, but the God of nature is not there. 8 Not even excluding pure science, witness the works of Mrs. Somerville. The tone of the literature of the females of Britain is invariably wholesome, and contrasts with much of that of France. It is pleasing to reflect that a great portion of the lite Mrs. Hemans, originally Miss Felicia Dorothea Browne, was the daughter of a merchant, a native of Ireland, and born in Liverpool in September 1793. The failure of her father in trade caused the retirement of the family into Wales, and the childhood of the poetess was spent among the inspiring scenery of Denbighshire. From a child she was a versifier, and produced her first publication at the age of fifteen. At that of eighteen, she was married to Captain Hemans. The union was unhappy; her husband six years afterwards, for his health, went to Italy, and, without any formal deed of separation, they never met again. Mrs. Hemans continued in her Welsh seclusion, the exertions of her pen, the education of her children, and the duties of religion and benevolence, furnishing her with ample employment. She died in Dublin, during a visit to her brother, Major Browne, in 1835. Mrs. Hemans, like several modern writers, is most popular in her minor poems. Delicacy of feeling, warmth of affection and devotion, depth of sympathy with nature, and harmony and brilliancy of language, are the features of these charming little pieces. Her larger works have the same characteristics, but become languid and fatiguing from their very uniformity of sweetness. Over her whole poetry, in the phrase of Sir W. Scott, there is too much flower for the fruit. Her style has been peculiarly popular in America, and much of the later American poetry is moulded on it. The larger works of Mrs. Hemans are "The Sceptic ;" "The Vespers of Palermo" (a tragedy); "The Forest Sanctuary;" "Records of Woman." FROM THE FOREST SANCTUARY. THE VOICES OF HOME. THE Voices of my home !---I hear them still! My heart's clear depths with unalloy'd delight! I hear them still, unchanged :-though some from earth Wild, silvery tones, that rang through days more bright! Singing of boyhood back-the voices of my home! They call me through this hush of woods reposing, They wander by when heavy flowers are closing, And thoughts grow deep, and winds and stars are born; On the parch'd traveller in his hour of thirst, E'en thus they haunt me with sweet sounds, till worn By quenchless longings, to my soul I say- O for the dove's swift wings, that I might flee away,— rary industry of our authoresses has been devoted to education, the most important of a mother's duties. Besides direct works on this subject, and books compiled for school purposes, the most charming fictions have been made subsidiary to the same object by Mrs. Sherwood, Miss Edgeworth, Miss Mulock, etc. A FATHER READING THE BIBLE. And find mine ark !-yet whither?--I must bear I am of those o'er whom a breath of air- 477 From the dim past, as from a wizard's cave !— So must it be!—These skies above me spread, Are they my own soft skies?-ye rest not here, my dead! A FATHER READING THE BIBLE. 'Twas early day, and sunlight stream'd Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright, And touched the page with tenderest light, But oh! that patriarch's aspect shone A radiance all the spirit's own, Some word of life e'en then had met Some ancient promise, breathing yet Some martyr's prayer, wherein the glow Of quenchless faith survives: And silent stood his children by, Of thoughts o'ersweeping death. |