The place they held in bosoms all their own,
Soon with new shadows fill'd, new flowers o'er-
Is theirs no more."
[grown,

Hast thou such power, O Love? And Love replied: "It is not mine! Pour out thy soul's full tide Of hope and trust,

Prayer, tear, devotedness, that boon to gain'Tis but to write, with the heart's fiery rain, Wild words on dust!"

Song, is the gift with thee? I ask a lay,
Soft, fervent, deep, that will not pass away
From the still breast;

Fill'd with a tone-oh! not for deathless fame,
But a sweet haunting murmur of my name,
Where it would rest.

And Song made answer-" It is not in me,
Though call'd immortal; though my gifts may be
All but divine.

A place of lonely brightness I can give :
A changeless one, where thou with Love wouldst
This is not mine!"
[live-

Death, Death! wilt thou the restless wish fulfil?
And Death, the Strong One, spoke:-"I can but
Each vain regret.
[still

What if forgotten?-All thy soul would crave,
Thou, too, within the mantle of the grave,
Wilt soon forget."

Then did my heart in lone faint sadness die, As from all nature's voices one reply,

But one-was given.

"Earth has no heart, fond dreamer! with a tone To send thee back the spirit of thine ownSeek it in heaven."

DRAMATIC SCENE BETWEEN BRONWYLFA AND RHYLLON.

[In the spring of 1825, Mrs Hemans removed from Bronwylfa to Rhyllon, another house belonging to her brother, not more than a quarter of a mile from the former place, and in full view from its windows. The distance being so inconsiderable, this could, in fact, scarcely be considered as a removal. The two houses, each situated on an eminence on opposite sides of the river Clwyd, confronted each other so conveniently, that a telegraphic communication was established between them, (by means of a regular set of signals and vocabulary, similar to those made use of in the navy,) and was carried on for a season with no little spirit, greatly to the amusement of their respective inhabitants.

Nothing could be less romantic than the outward appearance of Mrs Hemans's new residence-a tall, staring brick

house, almost destitute of trees, and unadorned (far, indeed, from being thus "adorned the most") by the covering mantle of honeysuckle, jessamine, or any such charitable drapery.1 Bronwylfa, on the contrary, was a perfect bower of roses, and peeped out like a bird's nest from amidst the foliage in which it was embosomed. The contrast between the two dwellings was thus playfully descanted upon by Mrs Hemans, in her contribution to a set of jeux d'esprit called the Bronwylfa Budget for 1825.—Memoir, p. 87-88.]

2

BRONWYLFA, after standing for some time in silent contemplation of RHYLLON, breaks out into the following vehement strain of vituperation.

You ugliest of fabrics! you horrible eyesore ! I wish you would vanish, or put on a visor! In the face of the sun, without covering or rag on, You stand and outstare me, like any red dragon. With your great green-eyed windows, in boldness a host, [boast,)

(The only green things which, indeed, you can With your forehead as high, and as bare as the pate Which an eagle once took for a stone or a slate,3 You lift yourself up, o'er the country afar, As who would say, 'Look at me!-here stands great R!"

66

I plant-I rear forest trees-shrubs great and small, To wrap myself up in-you peer through them all! With your lean scraggy neck o'er my poplars you rise; [eyes. You watch all my guests with your wide saucer

(In a paroxysm of rage.)

You monster! I would I could waken some morning, And find you had taken French leave without warning;

You should never be sought like Aladdin's famed palace.

You spoil my sweet temper-you make me bear malice:

For it is a hard fate, I will say it and sing,
Which has fix'd me to gaze on so frightful a thing.
RHYLLON-(with dignified equanimity.)
Content thee, Bronwylfa, what means all this rage?
This sudden attack on my quiet old age?
I am no partenu: you and I, my good brother,
Have stood here this century facing each other;
And I can remember the days that are gone,
When your sides were no better array'd than my

own.

1 Its conspicuousness has since been a good deal modified by the lowering of one storey, and by the growth of the surrounding plantations.

2 Bronwylfa is pronounced as written Bronwylva; and perhaps the nearest English approach to the pronunciation of Rhyllon, would be by supposing it to be spelt Ruthin, the u sounded as in but.

3 Bronwylfa is here supposed to allude to the pate of Eschylus, upon which an eagle dropped a tortoise to crack the shell.

Nay, the truth shall be told-since you flout me,

restore

The tall scarlet woodbine you took from my door! Since my baldness is mocked, and I'm forced to explain,

Pray give me my large laurustinus again.

(With a tone of prophetic solemnity.) Bronwylfa! Bronwylfa! thus insolent grown, Your pride and your poplars alike must come down! I look through the future (and far I can see, As St Asaph and Denbigh will answer for me,)

[In spite, however, of the unromantic exterior of her new abode, the earlier part of Mrs Hemans's residence at Rhyllon may, perhaps, be considered as the happiest of her life; as far, at least, as the term happiness could ever be fitly applied to any period of it later than childhood. The house, with all its ugliness, was large and convenient, the view from its windows beautiful and extensive, and its situation, on a fine green slope, terminating in a pretty woodland dingle, peculiarly healthy and cheerful. Never, perhaps, had she more thorough enjoyment of her boys than in witnessing, and often joining in, their sports in those pleasant breezy fields, where the kites soared so triumphantly, and the hoops trundled so merrily, and where the cowslips grew as cowslips had never grown before. An atmosphere of home soon gathered round the dwelling; roses were planted and honeysuckles trained, and the rustling of the solitary poplar near her window was taken to her heart like the voice of a friend. The dingle became a favourite haunt, where she would pass many dreamlike hours of enjoyment with her books, and her own sweet fancies, and her children playing around her. Every tree and flower, and tuft of moss that sprang amidst its green recesses, was invested with some individual charm by that rich imagination, so skilled in

"Clothing the palpable and the familiar

With golden exhalations of the dawn."

Here, on what the boys would call mamma's sofa-a little grassy mound under her favourite beech-tree-she first read The Talisman, and has described the scene with a loving minuteness in her Hour of Romance:

"There were thick leaves above me and around,

And low sweet sighs, like those of childhood's sleep, Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound

As of soft showers on water. Dark and deep
Lay the oak shadows o'er the turf-so still
They seem'd but pictured glooms; a hidden rill
Made music-such as haunts us in a dream-
Under the fern-tufts: and a tender gleam

And in spite of thy scorn, and of all thou hast done, From my kind heart's brick bottom, I pity thee, Bron!

The end of thy toiling and planting will be. That thou wilt want sunshine, and ask it of me. Thou wilt say, when thou wakest, looking out for the light,

"I suppose it is morning, for Rhyllon looks bright;" While I-my green eyes with their tears overflow. (Tenderly.)

Come!-let us be friends, as we were long ago."

Of soft green light, as by the glow-worm shed, Came pouring through the woven beech-boughs down." Many years after, in the sonnet "To a Distant Scene," she addresses, with a fond yearning, this well-remembered haunt:

"Still are the cowslips from thy bosom springing,

O far-off grassy dell!"

How many precious memories has she hung round the thought of the cowslip-that flower, with its "gold coat" and 'fairy favours," which is, of all others, so associated with the "voice of happy childhood," and was to her ever redolent of the hours when her

"Heart so leapt to that sweet laughter's tone!"

Another favourite resort was the picturesque old bridge over the Clwyd, and when her health (which was subject to continual variation, but was at this time more robust than usual) admitted of more aspiring achievements, she delighted in roaming to the hills; and the announcement of a walk to Cwm, a remote little hamlet, nestled in a mountain hollow, amidst very lovely sylvan scenery, about two miles from Rhyllon, would be joyously echoed by her elated companions, to whom the recollection of these happy rambles must always be unspeakably dear. Very often, at the outset of these expeditions, the party would be reinforced by the addition of a certain little Kitty Jones, a child from a neighbouring cottage, who had taken an especial fancy to Mrs Hemans, and was continually watching her movements. This little creature never saw her without at once attaching herself to her side, and confidingly placing its tiny hand in hers. So great was her love for children, and her repugnance to hurt the feelings of any living creature, that she never would shake off this singular appendage, but let little Kitty rejoice in her “pride of place," till the walk became too long for her capacity, and she would quietly fall behind of her own accord.-Memoir, p. 87-93.]

1 Pronounced "Coom."

ARABELLA STUART.

["THE LADY ARABELLA," as she has been frequently entitled, was descended from Margaret, eldest daughter of Henry VII., and consequently allied by birth to Elizabeth as well as James I. This affinity to the throne proved the misfortune of her life, as the jealousies which it constantly excited in her royal relatives, who were anxious to prevent her marrying, shut her out from the enjoyment of that domestic happiness which her heart appears to have so fervently desired. By a secret but early discovered union with William Seymour, son of Lord Beauchamp, she alarmed the cabinet of James, and the wedded lovers were immediately placed in separate confinement. From this they found means to concert a romantic plan of escape; and having won over a female attendant, by whose assistance she was disguised in male attire, Arabella, though faint from recent sickness and suffering, stole out in the night, and at last reached an appointed spot, where a boat and servants were in waiting. She embarked; and at break of day a French vessel engaged to receive her was discovered and gained. As Seymour, however, had not yet arrived, she was desirous that the vessel should lie at anchor for him; but this wish was overruled by her companions, who, contrary to her entreaties, hoisted sail, which," says D'Israeli, “occasioned so fatal a termination to this romantic adventure. Seymour, indeed, had escaped from the Tower; he reached the wharf, and found his confidential man waiting with a boat, and arrived at Lee. The time passed; the waves were rising; Arabella was not there; but in the distance he descried a vessel. Hiring a fisherman to take him on board, he discovered, to his grief, on hailing it, that it was not the French ship charged with his Arabella; in despair and confusion he found another ship from Newcastle, which for a large sum altered its course, and landed him in Flanders." Arabella, meantime, whilst imploring her attendants to linger, and earnestly looking out for the expected boat of her husband, was overtaken in Calais Roads by a vessel in the king's service, and brought back to a captivity,

[The little volume, 'Records of Woman,' which you kindly gave me permission to inscribe to you," wrote Mrs H. to Mrs Joanna Baillie, "is now in the press, and I hope I shall soon be able to send you a copy; and that the dedication, which is in the simplest form, will be honoured by your pproval. Mr Blackwood is its publisher."

Mrs Hemans always spoke with pleasure of her literary intercourse with Mr Blackwood, in whose de: lings she recog

WORDSWORTH.

SCHILLER.

under the suffering of which her mind and constitution gradually sank. "What passed in that dreadful imprisonment cannot perhaps be recovered for authentic history, but enough is known that her mind grew impaired, that she finally lost her reason, and, if the duration of her imprisonment was short, that it was only terminated by her death. Some effusions, often begun and never ended, written and erased, incoherent and rational, yet remain among her papers."D'ISRAELI'S Curiosities of Literature.

The following poem, meant as some record of her fate, and the imagined fluctuations of her thoughts and feelings, is supposed to commence during the time of her first imprisonment, whilst her mind was yet buoyed up by the consciousness of Seymour's affection, and the cherished hope of eventual deliverance.]

Twas but a dream! I saw the stag leap free, Under the boughs where early birds were singing; I stood o'ershadow'd by the greenwood tree,

And heard, it seem'd, a sudden bugle ringing Far through a royal forest. Then the fawn Shot, like a gleam of light, from grassy lawn To secret covert; and the smooth turf shook, And lilies quiver'd by the glade's lone brook, And young leaves trembled, as, in fleet career, A princely band, with horn, and hound, and spear, Like a rich masque swept forth. I saw the dance Of their white plumes, that bore a silvery glance Into the deep wood's heart; and all pass'd by Save one I met the smile of one clear eye,

nised all that uprightness and liberality which belonged to the sterling worth of his character. The "Records of Woman," the first of her works published by him, was brought out in May 1828. This volume was, to use the words of its author the one in which she had put her heart and individual feelings more than in any thing else she had written ;" and it is also, and perhaps consequently, the one which has held its ground the most steadily in public favour.-Memoir, p. 136.]

Flashing out joy to mine. Yes, thou wert there,
Seymour! A soft wind blew the clustering hair
Back from thy gallant brow, as thou didst rein
Thy courser, turning from that gorgeous train,
And fling, methought, thy hunting spear away,
And, lightly graceful in thy green array,
Bound to my side. And we, that met and parted
Ever in dread of some dark watchful power,
Won back to childhood's trust, and fearless-
hearted,

Blent the glad fulness of our thoughts that hour Even like the mingling of sweet streams, beneath Dim woven leaves, and midst the floating breath Of hidden forest-flowers.

II.

'Tis past! I wake,

A captive, and alone, and far from thee, My love and friend! Yet fostering, for thy sake, A quenchless hope of happiness to be; And feeling still my woman-spirit strong, In the deep faith which lifts from earthly wrong A heavenward glance. I know, I know our love Shall yet call gentle angels from above, By its undying fervour, and prevailSending a breath, as of the spring's first gale, [face, Through hearts now cold; and, raising its bright With a free gush of sunny tears, erase The characters of anguish. In this trust, I bear, I strive, I bow not to the dust, That I may bring thee back no faded form, No bosom chill'd and blighted by the storm, But all my youth's first treasures, when we meet, Making past sorrow, by communion, sweet.

III.

And thou too art in bonds! Yet droop thou not,
O my beloved! there is one hopeless lot,
But one, and that not ours. Beside the dead
There sits the grief that mantles up its head,
Loathing the laughter and proud pomp of light,
When darkness, from the vainly doting sight
Covers its beautiful! If thou wert gone

To the grave's bosom, with thy radiant browIf thy deep-thrilling voice, with that low tone

Of earnest tenderness, which now, even now Seems floating through my soul, were music taken For ever from this world-oh! thus forsaken Could I bear on? Thou livest, thou livest, thou'rt mine!

With this glad thought I make my heart a shrine,

1 "Wheresoever you are, or in what state soever you be, it sufficeth me you are mine. Rachel wept and would not be comforted, because her children were no more. And that

And by the lamp which quenchless there shall burn, Sit a lone watcher for the day's return.

IV.

And lo! the joy that cometh with the morning,
Brightly victorious o'er the hours of care!
I have not watch'd in vain, serenely scorning
The wild and busy whispers of despair!
Thou hast sent tidings, as of heaven-I wait

The hour, the sign, for blessed flight to thee.
Oh! for the skylark's wing that seeks its mate
As a star shoots!-but on the breezy sea
We shall meet soon.. To think of such an hour!
Will not my heart, o'erburden'd by its bliss,
Faint and give way within me, as a flower
Borne down and perishing by noontide's kiss?
Yet shall I fear that lot-the perfect rest,
The full deep joy of dying on thy breast,
After long suffering won? So rich a close
Too seldom crowns with peace affection's woes.

V.

Sunset! I tell each moment. From the skies
The last red splendour floats along my wall,
Like a king's banner! Now it melts, it dies!
I see one star-I hear-'twas not the call,
Th' expected voice; my quick heart throbb'd toc

soon.

I must keep vigil till yon rising moon
Shower down less golden light. Beneath her beam
Through my lone lattice pour'd, I sit and dream
Of summer lands afar, where holy love,
Under the vine or in the citron grove,
May breathe from terror.

Now the night grows deep,
And silent as its clouds, and full of sleep.

I hear my veins beat. Hark! a bell's slow chime!
My heart strikes with it. Yet again-'tis time!
A step!-a voice!—or but a rising breeze?
Hark!-haste!-I come to meet thee on the seas!

VI.

Now never more, oh! never, in the worth
Of its pure cause, let sorrowing love on earth
Trust fondly-never more! The hope is crush'd
That lit my life, the voice within me hush'd
That spoke sweet oracles; and I return
To lay my youth, as in a burial urn,
Where sunshine may not find it. All is lost!
No tempest met our barks-no billow toss'd;

indeed, is the remediless sorrow, and none else!"-From a letter of Arabella Stuart's to her husband.-See Curiosities of Literature.