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Bowles, in describing a night-scene (in his Grave of the last

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The following from an address to the North Star has rather

more vigour than Mrs. Smith usually displays:

"Now nightly wandering 'mid the tempests drear
That howl the woods and rocky steeps among,
I love to see thy sudden light appear

Through the swift clouds-driven by the wind along;
Or in the turbid water, rude and dark,

O'er whose wild stream the gust of Winter raves,
Thy trembling light with pleasure still I murk,
Gleam in faint radiance on the foaming waves!"

The following verse is tender and melodious :--

"Oh! my lost love! no tomb is placed for thee
That may to stranger's eyes thy worth impart;
Thou hast no grave but in the stormy sea,

And no memorial but this breaking heart!"

I quote a part of the Sonnet to Fancy, for the sake of the neat turn of its concluding couplet :

"Through thy false medium then no longer viewed,

May fancied pain and fancied pleasure fly;

And I, as from me all thy dreams depart,

Be to my wayward destiny subdued;

Nor seek perfection with a poet's eye,

Nor suffer anguish with a poet's heart."

It may perhaps appear from these extracts, that though not to be placed in the first class of British Female Poets, Mrs. Smith

deserves more attention from the public than she is now likely to obtain. She is not to be compared to the Lady Minstrels of the present day, (to the powerful Joanna Baillie, the fanciful L. E. L., the tender and pathetic Caroline Bowles*, or the refined and spirited Hemans,) but her poems may, nevertheless, be occasionally referred to with pleasure as the effusions of a chaste and cultivated mind.



A GLORIOUS Sight! The sun is in the sea,
But o'er its liquid cell yon cloud-arch gleams
With lambent fire-fit bridge for forms of air!
On either side, like green paths dropped with gold,
Or cowslip-covered fields in dewy light,
The glittering vapours lie.-But ah! how vain
To breathe this feeble language o'er a scene,
So like a gorgeous vision! Every tint

And shadowy form that charms the poet's eye
Now mocks his failing art!

Now Mrs. Southey.




'Tis sweet on this far strand,

When memory charms the fond reverted eye,

To view that hallowed land

Where early dreams like sun-touched shadows lie!


The dear familiar forms,

That caught the fairest hues of happier hours,

Flash forth through after storms,

As bursts of light between autumnal showers.


The green-wood's loveliest spot

The summer walk-the cheerful winter fire

The calm domestic cot

The village church with ivy-covered spire


Each scene we loved so well

With faithful force the mind's true mirror shows;

As Painting's mighty spell

Recals the past, and lengthened life bestows.


But though so brightly beam,

These distant views, they make the present drear;

By Youth's departed dream,

Life's onward paths but desolate appear.


We may not therefore dwell

Too long and deeply on the dearer past,
Nor sound, for aye, the knell

Of pleasures gone and glories overcast.


Whate'er our lot may be,

Whatever tints life's varied prospects wear,
The temper'd breast is free

From sullen apathy or fierce despair.


In fortune's cloudiest hours,

Within the dreariest regions of the earth,
Are found both beams and flowers,
Unless the wanderer's soul betrays a dearth.


For still, where'er we range,

Are traced the sweet results of virtue's reign;
Though forms and features change,
Fair thoughts and fine humanities remain.


And he, whose spirit glows

At Nature's charms, shall own in every

Her glorious aspect shows


The same bright marks of God's creating hand!

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FAIR England! thine untravell'd sons may bear
A tranquil sense of thy surpassing worth,

As those who ne'er have parted from their birth
In faith serene their social comforts share ;
But he, alone, doth feel how deeply dear
The charms of home, who wildly wandering forth
To distant realms, finds dreariness and dearth
E'en where kind Nature's lavish blooms appear.
Around his path bright scenes unheeded lie,
For these are tinged not with his early dreams-
His heart is far away! Thy varied sky
Dappling the silent hills with clouds and gleams-
Thy nest-like cottages and silver streams-
Are all that catch the wanderer's dreaming eye!


THERE is exulting pride, and holy mirth,

In Freedom's kindling eye! Her radiant smile
Profoundly thrills this fair imperial isle,
The Queen of nations! Glory of the earth!
Impassioned orisons are breathing forth,
And lofty aspirations. Phantoms vile
That chill the feeble spirit, and defile

The springs of thought and feeling in their birth,
Fade like the mists of morn, and lose the power
That made us willing slaves. For reason's light
Is bursting through the clouds that darkly lower,
And hide the face of Heaven! O'er the night
Of slumbering millions--oh! transcendent hour!
The sun of liberty is rising bright!

* Written in England.

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