The earth's one sanctuary-and rapture hush'd
Her bosom, as before her, through the day,
It rose, a mountain of white marble, steep'd
In light like floating gold. But when that hour
Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy
Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye
Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear, [her arm
Turn'd from the white-robed priest, and round
Clung even as joy clings-the deep spring-tide
Of nature then swell'd high, and o'er her child
Bending, her soul broke forth in mingled sounds
Of weeping and sad song. "Alas!" she cried,—

"Alas! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me, The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes; And now fond thoughts arise,

And silver cords again to earth have won me, And like a vine thou claspest my full heart— How shall I hence depart?

"How the lone paths retrace where thou wert playing

So late, along the mountains, at my side?

And I, in joyous pride,

By every place of flowers my course delaying, Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair, Beholding thee so fair!

"And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted,

Will it not seem as if the sunny day

Turn'd from its door away? [hearted, While through its chambers wandering, wearyI languish for thy voice, which past me still Went like a singing rill?

"Under the palm-trees thou no more shalt meet me, When from the fount at evening I return,

With the full water-urn;

Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings greet As midst the silence of the stars I wake, [me, And watch for thy dear sake.

"And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee,

Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed? Wilt thou not vainly spread

Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear, [thee, A cry which none shall hear?

"What have I said, my child! Will Henot hear thee, Who the young ravens heareth from their nest? Shall He not guard thy rest,

And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee, Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy? Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy.

"I give thee to thy God-the God that gave thee,
A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart!
And, precious as thou art,

And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee,
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled!
And thou shalt be His child.

"Therefore, farewell! I go-my soul may fail me, As the hart panteth for the water brooks, Yearning for thy sweet looks.

But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me; Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell,

The Rock of Strength.-Farewell!"

["It would be wearisomely superfluous to enumerate the long series of lyrics which she now poured forth with increasing earnestness and rapidity, and without which none of the lighter periodicals of the day made its appearance. One or two, however, must be mentioned, as certain to survive so long as the short poem shall be popular in England. The Treasures of the Deep,' The Hour of Death,' 'The Graves of a Household,'The Cross in the Wilderness,' are all admirable. With these, too, may be mentioned those poems in which a short descriptive recitative (to borrow a word from the opera) introduces a lyrical burst of passion or regret, or lamentation. This form of composition became so especially popular in America, that hardly a poet has arisen, since the influence of Mrs Hemans' genius made itself felt on the other side of the Atlantic, who has not attempted something of a similar subject and construction. The Hebrew Mother' has been followed by an infinite number of sketches from Scripture: this lyric, too, should be particularised as having made friends for its authoress among those of the ancient faith in England. Among the last strangers who visited her, eager to thank her for the pleasure her writings had afforded them, were a Jewish gentleman and lady, who entreated to be admitted by the author of the Hebrew Mother.'"-CHORLEY'S Memorials of Mrs Hemans, p. 114-15.

"Her Voice of Spring,' her Hour of Death,' her Treasures of the Deep,' her Graves of a Household,' her England's Dead,' her Trumpet,' her 'Hebrew Mother,' and a host of similar pieces-these are the undying lays, the lumps of pure gold. We do not think thus with reference to Mrs Hemans' lyrics only; it strikes us that nearly all our present poets must depend for future fame on their shorter pieces."Literary Magnet, 1826.]

THE WRECK.

ALL night the booming minute-gun
Had peal'd along the deep,
And mournfully the rising sun

Look'd o'er the tide-worn steep. A bark from India's coral strand, Before the raging blast,