intended for representation. The story is extremely simple. The Moors, who besiege Valencia, take the two sons of the governor, Gonzalez, captive, as they come to visit their father, and now the ransom demanded for them is the surrender of the city they are to die if the place is not yielded up. Elmina, the mother of the boys, and Ximena, their sister, are the remaining members of a family to which so dreadful an option is submitted. The poem is one of the highest merit. The subject is of great diguity, being connected with the defence of Spain against the Moors; and at the same time it is of the greatest tenderness, offering a succession of the most moving scenes that can be imagined to occur in the bosom of a family. The father is firm, the daughter is heroic, the mother falters. She finds her way to the Moorish camp, sees her children, forms her plan for betraying the town, and then is not able to conceal her grief and her design from her husband. He immediately sends a defiance to the Moors, his children are brought out and beheaded, a sortie is made from the besieged city: finally, the king of Spain arrives to the rescue; the wrongs of Gonzalez are avenged; he himself dies in victory; and the poem closes with a picture of his wife, moved by the strongest grief, of which she is yet able to restrain the expression. The great excellence of the poem lies in the description of the struggle between the consciousness We believe none but a of duty and maternal fondness. mother could have written it."-PROFESSOR NORTON, in North American Review for April 1827.

"The graceful powers of Mrs Hemans in the same walk which had been trodden so grandly by Miss Baillie, were manifested in her Vespers of Palermo, and her Siege of Valencia.' The latter is a noble work, and as a poem ranks with her highest productions, though it is filled too uniformly perhaps with the spirit of her own mind, to be very distinctively dramatic. It has indeed variety, but less of the variety of human nature, than of a godlike and exalted nature, which belongs to few among mankind, and to them, perhaps, only in strange and terrible crises. The steadfastness of the paternal chieftain, the sterner enthusiasm of the priest, the mother's maddening affection, and the gentle heroism of the melancholy Ximena are drawn with individuality, but it is the individuality of a common greatness, the apparent appropriation to many of an essence really the same in all. In her own heart the poetess found this pure essence; and when

she created her Christian patriots at Valencia, she but translated herself into a new dialect of manners and motives. Of this one elevated material she has, however, made fine dramatic use. The language, while faultless in its measured music, has passion to swell its cadences; the loftiness is never languid; and the flow of the verse is skilfully broken into the animated abruptness suitable to earnest dialogue. There are many, too, of those sudden glimpses of profound truth in which the energy of passion seems to force its rude way, in a moment, into regions of the heart that philosophy would take hours to survey with its technical language. Thus, when the iron-hearted monk is telling the story of his son's disgrace,—

ELMINA. He died?

HERNANDEZ. Not so!

-Death! death! Why, earth should be a paradise
To make that name so fearful! Had he died,
With his young fame about him for a shroud,
I had not learn'd the might of agony
To bring proud natures low! No! he fell off-
Why do I tell thee this? What right hast thou
To learn how pass'd the glory from my house?
Yet listen. He forsook me! He that was
As mine own soul forsook me !-trampled o'er
The ashes of his sires!-ay, leagued himself
Even with the infidel, the curse of Spain;
And, for the dark eye of a Moorish maid,

Abjured his faith, his God! Now, talk of death!

"The whole of the scene to which the passage belongs, is moulded in the highest spirit of tragic verse. The bewilderment of the mother betrayed into guilt by overpowering affection, and the death of the beautiful enthusiast Ximena, are sketched in a style of excellence little inferior; and the peculiar powers of Mrs Hemans's poetry, less dramatic than declamatory, have full scope in the spirit-stirring address of the latter to the fainting host of Valencia, as she lifts in her own ancient city the banner of the Cid, and recounts the sublime legend of his martial burial. Spain and its romances formed the darling theme of Mrs Hemans's muse; and before leaving the subject, she gives us her magnificent series of ballads, the Songs of the Cid," which meet us at the close of the drama, as if to form an appropriate chorus to the whole."-WILLIAM ARCHER BUTLER, Introductory Notice to National Lyrics and Songs for Music. Dublin: 1838.]

Call down such peace to soothe thy breast, As thou wouldst bear to all that mourn.

TO THE SAME;'

ON THE DEATH OF HER MOTHER.

SAY not 'tis fruitless, nature's holy tear,
Shed by affection o'er a parent's bier!

More blest than dew on Hermon's brow that falls,
Each drop to life some latent virtue calls,
Awakes some purer hope, ordain'd to rise,
By earthly sorrow strengthen'd for the skies;
Till the sad heart, whose pangs exalt its love,
With its lost treasure, seeks a home-above.

But grief will claim her hour,—and He whose eye
Looks pitying down on nature's agony,
He, in whose love the righteous calmly sleep,
Who bids us hope, forbids us not to weep!
He, too, hath wept-and sacred be the woes
Once borne by Him, their inmost source who
knows,

Searches each wound, and bids His Spirit bring
Celestial healing on its dove-like wing!

And who but He shall soothe, when one dread stroke

Ties, that were fibres of the soul, hath broke? Oh! well may those, yet lingering here, deplore The vanish'd light, that cheers their path no more! Th' Almighty hand, which many a blessing dealt, Sends its keen arrows not to be unfelt!

By fire and storm, heaven tries the Christian's worth, And joy departs, to wean us from the earth, Where still too long, with beings born to die, Time hath dominion o'er Eternity.

Yet not the less, o'er all the heart hath lost,
Shall Faith rejoice, when Nature grieves the most.
Then comes her triumph! through the shadowy
gloom,

Her star in glory rises from the tomb,
Mounts to the day-spring, leaves the cloud below,
And gilds the tears that cease not yet to flow!
Yes, all is o'er! fear, doubt, suspense are fled-
Let brighter thoughts be with the virtuous dead!
The final ordeal of the soul is past,

And the pale brow is seal'd to heaven at last!1

1 "Till we have sealed the servants of God in their foreheads."-Revelation.

And thou, loved spirit! for the skies mature,
Steadfast in faith, in meek devotion pure;
Thou that didst make the home thy presence
bless'd

Bright with the sunshine of thy gentle breast,
Where peace a holy dwelling-place had found,
Whence beam'd her smile benignantly around;
Thou, that to bosoms widow'd and bereft
Dear, precious records of thy worth hast left,
The treasured gem of sorrowing hearts to be,
Till heaven recall surviving love to thee!

O cherish'd and revered! fond memory well
On thee, with sacred, sad delight, may dwell!
So pure, so blest thy life, that Death alone
Could make more perfect happiness thine own.
He came thy cup of joy, serenely bright,
Full to the last, still flow'd in cloudless light;
He came an angel, bearing from on high
The all it wanted-Immortality!

FROM THE SPANISH OF GARCILASO DE LA VEGA.

DIVINE Eliza !-since the sapphire sky
Thou measur'st now on angel wings, and feet
Sandall'd with immortality-oh, why

Of me forgetful? Wherefore not entreat
To hurry on the time, when I shall see
The veil of mortal being rent in twain,
And smile that I am free?

In the third circle of that happy land,
Shall we not seek together, hand in hand,
Another lovelier landscape, a new plain,
Other romantic streams and mountains blue,
And other vales, and a new shady shore,
When I may rest, and ever in my view
Keep thee, without the terror and surprise
Of being sunder'd more!

FROM THE ITALIAN OF SANNAZARO.

OH! pure and blessed soul,

That, from thy clay's control Escaped, hast sought and found thy native sphero And from thy crystal throne Look'st down, with smiles alone, On this vain scene of mortal hope and fear;

Thy happy feet have trod The starry spangled road, Celestial flocks by field and fountain guiding; And from their erring track

Thou charm'st thy shepherds back, With the soft music of thy gentle chiding.

Oh! who shall Death withstandDeath, whose impartial hand Levels the lowest plant and loftiest pine! When shall our ears again

Drink iu so sweet a strain, Our eyes behold so fair a form as thine!

APPEARANCE OF THE SPIRIT OF THE CAPE TO VASCO DE GAMA.

(TRANSLATED FROM THE FIFTH BOOK OF THE LUSIAD OF CAMOENS.)

PROPITIOUS winds our daring bark impell'd
O'er seas which mortal ne'er till then beheld,
When as one eve, devoid of care, we stood
Watching the prow glide swiftly through the flood,
High o'er our heads arose a cloud so vast,
O'er sea and heaven a fearful shade it cast:
Awful, immense, it came! so thick, so drear,
Its gloomy grandeur chill'd our hearts with fear,
And the dark billow heaved with distant roar,
Hoarse, as if bursting on some rocky shore.

Thrill'd with amaze, I cried, "Supernal Power!
What mean the omens of this threatening hour!
What the dread mystery of this ocean-clime,
So darkly grand, so fearfully sublime?"
Scarce had I spoke, when lo! a mighty form,
Tower'd through the gathering shadows of the
storm;

Of rude proportions and gigantic size,
Dark features, rugged beard, and deep-sunk eyes;
Fierce was his gesture, and his tresses flew,
Sable his lips, and earthly pale his hue.
Well may I tell thee that his limbs and height,
In vast dimensions and stupendous might,
Surpass'd that wonder, once the sculptor's boast,
The proud Colossus of the Rhodian coast.
Deep was his voice-in hollow tones he spoke,
As if from ocean's inmost caves they broke;
And but that form to view, that voice to hear,
Spread o'er our flesh and hair cold deadly thrills
of fear.

"O daring band!" he cried, "far, far more bold
Than all whose deeds recording fame has told;
Adventurous spirits! whom no bounds of fear
Can teach one pause in rapine's fierce career;
Since, bursting thus the barriers of the main,
Ye dare to violate my lonely reign,

Where, till this moment, from the birth of time,
No sail e'er broke the solitude sublime :
Since thus ye pierce the veil by Nature thrown
O'er the dark secrets of the Deep Unknown,
Ne'er yet reveal'd to aught of mortal birth,
Howe'er supreme in power, unmatch'd in worth-
Hear from my lips what chastisements of fate,
Rash, bold intruders! on your course await!
What countless perils, woes of darkest hue,
Haunt the vast main and shores your arms must
yet subdue!

"Know that o'er every bark, whose fearless helm Invades, like yours, this wide mysterious realm, Unmeasured ills my arm in wrath shall pour, And guard with storms my own terrific shore ! And on the fleet, which first presumes to brave The dangers throned on this tempestuous wave, Shall vengeance burst, ere yet a warning fear, Have time to prophesy destruction near !

"Yes, desperate band! if right my hopes divine, Revenge, fierce, full, unequall'd, shall be mine! Urge your bold prow, pursue your venturous way— Pain, Havoc, Ruin, wait their destined prey! And your proud vessels, year by year, shall find (If no false dreams delude my prescient mind) My wrath so dread in many a fatal storm, Death shall be deem'd misfortune's mildest form.

"Lo! where my victim comes!-of noble birth, Of cultured genius, and exalted worth, With her, his best beloved, in all her charms, Pride of his heart, and treasure of his arms! From foaming waves, from raging winds they fly, Spared for revenge, reserved for agony ! Oh! dark the fate that calls them from their home, On this rude shore, my savage reign, to roam, And sternly saves them from a billowy tomb, For woes more exquisite, more dreadful doom! -Yes! he shall see the offspring, loved in vain, Pierced with keen famine, die in lingering pain; Shall see fierce Caffres every garment tear, From her, the soft, the idolised, the fair; Shall see those limbs, of nature's finest mould, Bare to the sultry sun, or midnight cold,

1 Don Emmanuel de Sonsa, and his wife, Leonora de Sà.