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prefer to quote from these posthumous poems, written from her very heart of hearts, in which passion seems to burst unconsciously into poetry.

LOVE'S MEMORY.

I wove a wreath, 'twas fresh and fair,
Rich roses in their crimson pride,

And the blue harebell flowers were there ;-
I wove and flung the wreath aside:
Too much did those bright blossoms speak
Of thy dear eyes and youthful cheek.

I took my lute; methought its strain
Might wile the heavy hours along;
I strove to fill my heart and brain
With the sweet breath of ancient song:
In vain; whate'er I made my choice
Was fraught with thy bewitching voice.

And down I laid the restless lute,

And turned me to the poet's page;
And vainly deemed that converse mute,
Unmingled might my heart engage:

But in the poet's work I find
The fellow essence of thy mind.

I wandered midst the silent wood,

And sought the greenest, coolest glade,
Where not a sunbeam might intrude;
And in a chestnut's quiet shade
I sate, and in that leafy gloom,
Thought of the darkness of the tomb.

And strove to lead my heart to drink

At the deep founts of wandering thought,
To ponder on the viewless link

Between our souls and bodies wrought;
To quench my passionate dreams of thee
Awhile in that philosophy.

Yet, all the while, thine image bright,
Still flitted by my mind to win,

Casting through dreamy thoughts its light,
Like sunshine that would enter in;

And every leaf and every tree

Seemed quivering with beams of thee.

Beloved! I will strive no more!

Thine image, in vice-regal power,

Shall ruling sit all memories o'er,

Throned in my heart, until the hour
When thou thyself shalt come again,
Restoring there thine olden reign.

The next poem is also written in a hopeful mood :—

Fear not, beloved, though clouds may lower,
While rainbow visions melt away,

Faith's holy star hath still a power

That may the deepest midnight sway.

Fear not! I take a prophet's tone,

Our love can neither wane nor set;
My heart grows strong in trust: mine own,
We shall be happy yet!

What though long anxious years have passed,
Since this true heart was vowed to thine,
There comes for us a light at last,

Whose beam upon our path shall shine.
We, who have loved 'mid doubts and fears,
Yet never with one hour's regret;
There comes a joy to gild our tears;
We shall be happy yet!

Ay, by the wandering birds, that find
A home beyond the mountain wave,
Though wind, and rain, and hail, combined
To bow them to an ocean grave;

By summer suns that brightly rise,

Though erst in mournful tears they set;
By all Love's hopeful prophecies,

We shall be happy yet!

It is really pleasant to know that, although the bliss was short in duration, yet the vows of that faithful heart were heard. Here is one other love note:

Another year is dying fast,

A chequered year of joy and woe,
And dark and light alike are past,
The rose and thorn at once laid low:
All things are changed;—and I am changed,
Even in the love I knew before,

Not that my heart can be estranged,

But I have learnt to love thee more.

Yes, to mine ear thine accents all,
Have grown more welcome and more glad,

K*

Thy coming step more musical,
And thy departing tread more sad.
They say the first bright dawn of love
Hath bliss no other time can show;
But I have lived and learned to know
How dearer far its future glow.

Their disappointments we have proved,
Dark clouds across our path have been;
Yet better through them all we loved,
As dark and drearier grew the scene.
Oh! would this truth could bring relief
To thee, when earthly cares annoy,
That I would rather share thy grief
Than revel in another's joy.

A temperament so framed must, of necessity, take pleasure in the beauties of Nature. I must make room for a few stanzas of her

ANTICIPATIONS OF THE COUNTRY.

The summer sunshine falls

O'er the hot vistas of the crowded town,
Startling the dusty walls

With beauty and with glory not their own;

The summer skies are bright,

A canopy of peace above the strife

Of human hearts that fight

And struggle on the battle plain of life.

Summers have passed away

Since I a dweller 'mid this scene became,

And still their earliest ray

Hath sent a thirsty longing through my frame;
A longing to be far

In the green woodlands, in the pastures fair,

And not as travelers are;

My heart hath yearned to be a dweller there.

It comes, it comes at last;

All I have panted for is near me now;

Ere many hours have past,

A cool untroubled breeze shall fan my brow.

The faint continuous hum

That hath been round me till 'twas scarcely heard,

No more shall near me come

To mar the melodies of bee or bird.

No more the sultry street

Shall echo to my quick, uneasy tread;
Gladly I turn my feet

To where the turf in daisied pride is spread.

No more the whirling wheel,

The tramping horses, and the people's shout;-
Oh! how my heart will feel

The pleasant quiet circling me about.

Blessed to go away,

To where the wild-flower blooms and wood-bird sings,

And lightly o'er the spray

The purple vetch its wreathing garland flings.

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One more I must quote, of a still different strain. It was left without a title, a mere fragment among her papers; but the editor of the "Dublin University Magazine" has called it

THE GIFTED.

Oh, woe for those whose dearest themes
Must rest within the bosom's fold!
Oh, woe for those who live on dreams,
Unheeded by the coarse and cold.
They have a hidden life, akin

To nothing in this earthly sphere;
They have a glorious world within,

Where nothing mortal may appear;
A world of song, and flower, and gem,
Yet woe for them! Oh, woe for them!

Such his perplexing grief who seeks
A refuge upon stranger shores;
In vain to foreign ears he speaks,

In vain their sympathy implores.
The same sad fate a bark might prove,
Laden with gold or princely store,

Without a guiding star above,

With an unmeasured deep before.

The world doth scorn them, gibe, condemn;—
Woe for the gifted! Woe for them!

Surely this was a very remarkable woman; and these poems (there are many more of nearly equal beauty) should not be left to the perishable record of a magazine. Her earliest publications were, as I have said, of little worth; but enough of the highest merit might be collected to form an enduring memorial of her genius and her virtues.

XVIII.

AMERICAN ORATORS.

DANIEL WEBSTER.

ONE of the greatest, if not the very greatest, of the living orators of America, is, beyond all manner of doubt, Daniel Webster. That he is also celebrated as a lawyer and a statesman, is a matter of course in that practical country, where even so high a gift as that of eloquence is brought to bear on the fortunes of individuals and the prosperity of the commonwealth,—no idle pilaster placed for ornament, but a solid column aiding to support the building. A column indeed, stately and graceful with its Corinthian capital, gives no bad idea of Mr. Webster; of his tall and muscular person, his massive features, noble head, and the general expression of placid strength by which he is distinguished. This is a mere fanciful comparison; but Sir Augustus Callcott's fine figure of Columbus has been reckoned very like him; a resemblance that must have been fortuitous, since the picture was painted before the artist had even seen the celebrated orator.

When in England some ten or twelve years ago, Mr. Webster's calm manner of speaking excited much admiration and perhaps a little surprise, as contrasted with the astounding and somewhat rough rapidity of progress which is the chief characteristic of his native land. And yet that calmness of manner was just what might be expected from a countryman of Washington, earnest, thoughtful, weighty, wise. No visitor to London ever left behind him pleasanter recollections, and I hope that the good impression was reciprocal. Every body was delighted with his geniality and taste; and he could hardly fail to like the people who so heartily liked him. Among our cities and our scenery he admired that most which was most worthy of admiration ; preferring, in common with many of the most gifted of his coun

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