Her face thou makest a heaven, and her eyes

The glory of those cloudless skies;
They are the plants 'neath whose sway
The willing lover bends on his celestial way.

Thou cheer'st the prisoner in his lonely cell,
The broken spirit knows thee well;
A troop of angels come with thee,
Wisdom, and Hope, calm Thought, and blest Tran-
quillity.

Ambition blighted seeks thee, and the shade;

Remembrance thee her voice hath made,

At whose sweet call, as to some tale, [to sail. We, listening, turn our bark 'mong pleasures past

Thou spread'st the canvass, and with gentlest winds Impell'st the vessel, till she finds

Some genial spot, where bends the yew, Or cypress waves o'er friends who long have bid

adieu.

Thou sooth'st the weary and uplift'st the low;
The voice of God thou wert below:
The holy prophets spake through thee, [tree.
And wept to see their harps hang mute on willow-

Where now had been the warlike of old Troy,
Whom Time nor tyrants can destroy,
If the bold Muse had never lent
Her aid to sing her chiefs brave, wise, or eloquent!
Who, when the patriot falls 'neath ruthless power,

Revives for aye the genial shower;
Whose moisture, like the morning's dews,
Keeps fresh the flower of fame-Who but the
heavenly Muse?

Thou art the eye of pity, that surveys

Man wandering through life's mystic ways;
His various changes are thy theme,

His loves, his laughs, his tears: like him, thou art a dream.

Forgive, blest Muse, my want of skill to sing

Thy wonderous praise. Oh round me fling The mantle of sweet thought; and strew, As erst, with flowers, the path I pensive still pursue.

LOVE.

THERE is a flower that never changeth hue;
In vain the angry winds its leaves assail;
Triumphant over time, in every vale
It lifts its hopeful head, glistering with dew.
The maiden rears it in her own sweet looks;

The youth conjures it in the summer shade,
Pictures its image, as by murmuring brooks
He flies from scenes that his chaste dreams invade.
The very fields its presence own in spring;

The hills re-echo with a song of gladness; The heavens themselves their store of tribute bring, And in this flower all things renounce their sadness.

Love! where is the heart that knows not thee? Theu only bloomest everlastingly!

A DREAM.

METHOUGHT my love was dead. Oh, 'twas a night
Of dreary weeping, and of bitter wo!
Methought I saw her lovely spirit go
With lingering looks into yon star so bright,
Which then assumed such a beauteous light,
That all the fires in heaven compared with this
Were scarce perceptible to my weak sight.

There seem'd henceforth the haven of my bliss To that I turn'c with fervency of soul,

And pray'd that morn might never break again,
But o'er me that pure planet still remain.

Alas! o'er it my vows had no control.
The lone star set: I woke full glad, I deem,
To find my sorrow but a lover's dream.

LIFE.

AH! what is life! a dream within a dream,
A pilgrimage from peril rarely free;
A bark that sails upon a changing sea,
Now sunshine and now storm; a mountain stream,
Heard, but scarce seen ere to the dark deep gone;
A wild star blazing with unsteady beam,
Yet for a season fair to look upon.

Life is an infant on affection's knee,
A youth now full of hope and transient glee,
In manhood's peerless noon now bright, ar.on,
A time-worn ruin silver'd o'er with years.

Life is a race where slippery steeps arise,
Where discontent and sorrow are the prize,
And when the goal is won the grave appears.

WALTON.

WALTON! when, weary of the world, I turn
My pensive soul to thee, I soothing find
The meekness of thy plain contented mind
Act like some healing charm. From thee I learn
To sympathize with nature, nor repine

At fortune, who, though lavish of her store,
Too often leaves her favourites richly poor,
Wanting both health and energy divine
Life's blessings to enjoy. Methinks even now
I hear thee 'neath the milk-white scented thorn
Communing with thy pupil, as the morn
Her rosy check displays,-while streams that flow,
And all that gambol near their rippling source,
Enchanted listen to thy sweet discourse.

SCENES OF CHILDHOOD. AND do I then behold again the scene,

Where once I sported when a wanton child; The mead, the church, the streamlet running wild With here and there a fairy spot between, Smiling, as there rude storm had never been? Alas! how changed are we who once did rove Calder, thy then enchanted banks along;

Retiring now to the sequester'd grove, Now cheerful hearkening to the accustom'd song T'hat rose at eventide these vales among! [wear : The charm and hope of youth the green leaves Tis only man that blossoms and decays, To know no second spring. I thoughtful gazo With dream of years le ng past, and drop a tear

SIDNEY.

BIDNEY, thou star of beaming chivalry,
That rose and set 'mid valour's peerless day;
Rich ornament of knighthood's milky-way;
How much our youth of England owe to thee,
Thou model of high learning and meek grace,
That realized an image which did find
No place before, save in the inventive mind
Of hoping man. In thee we proudly trace
All that revered Antiquity can show

Of acts heroic that adorn her page,
Blending with virtues of a purer age.
Upon thy tomb engrafted spirits grow,

Where sit the warbling sisters who attend
The shade made sacred to the Muses' friend.

SOLACE DERIVED FROM BOOKS. HENCE care, and let me steep my drooping spirit In streams of poesy, or let me steer Imagination's bark 'mong bright scenes, where Mortals immortal fairy-land inherit. Ah me! that there should be so few to merit The realized hope of him, who deems

In his youth's spring that life is what it seems, Till sorrows pierce his soul, and storms deter it From resting there as erst! Ye visions fair,

Of Genius born, to you I turn, and flee Far from this world's ungenial apathy; Too blest, if but awhile I captive share The presence of such beings as engage [less page. The heart, and burn through Shakspeare's match

TO A BIRD.

SWEET captive, thou a lesson me hast taught
Excelling any which the schools convey;
Example before precept men obey.
Methinks already I have haply caught
A portion of thy joy. Contentment rare,

For one in dull abode like thine, I trace,
Blended with warblings of such cheerful grace,
And yet without a listening ear to share,
Save mine, thy melody. Thus all day long,
Even as the youthful bard that meditates
In scenes the visionary mind creates,
Thou to some woodland image tunest thy song;
A prisoner too to hope, like him, sweet bird,
In lonely cell thou sing'st, and sing'st unheard.

A MOTHER SINGING.

HARK, 'tis a mother singing to her child

Those madrigals that used her ears to greet, When she, an infant like that spring-flower sweet, Lent her charm'd ears to nurse, or mother mild, That sang those nursery stories strange and wild— Of knights, of robbers, and of Fairy queens Dwelling in castles mid enchanted scenesThe songs which plain antiquity beguiled. Or is her theme of him, her lord, whose bark Is ploughing, 'neath his guidance, Indian seas; Or far detain'd by polar skies, that freeze His glad return? She, tuneful as the lark [smile, That warbling soars, though Phoebus cease to Lifts her soft voice, and sings, though sad the while.

POESY.

DIVINEST Poesy! without thy wings

Life were a burden, and not worth receiving; Youth fadeth like a dream, care keeps us grieving Early we sicken at all pleasure brings. Thou only art the ever genial mail, That strew'st with flowers the winter of our way Companion meet in city or in shade,

Magician sweet whose wand all things obey; Thou peoplest with divinities the grove, Picturest old times, and with creative skill, Mould'st men and manners to thy heavenly will Mistress of sympathy and winning love,

Oh be thou ever with me, with me-wholly, To smile when I am gay, to sigh when melancholy

ΤΟ

AND what was Stella but a haughty dame?
Or Geraldine, whom noble Surrey sought?
Or Sacharissa, she who proudly taught

The courtly Waller statelier verse to frame? Or Beatrice, whom Dante deified?

Or she of whom all Italy once rung, Compared with thee, who art our age's pride, And the sweet theme of many a poet's tongue! There is a nobleness that dwells within,

Fairer by far than any outward feature; A grace, a wit to gentleness akin,

That would subdue the most unloving creature. These beauties rare are thine, most matchless maid, Compared with which, theirs were but beauty's shade.

ROUEN.

BRIGHT was the moon as from thy gates I went,
Majestic Rouen! and the silver Seine
Dimpled with joy, as murmuring to the main,
A pilgrim like myself, her course she bent.
Thou art a city beautiful to see,

Surpassing in magnificence that seat

Of kings, the capital, the gay retreat Of which "all Europe rings!" Full oft of thee Will be my future dreams; when far away,

I still shall mingle with thy ancient throng; Shall pace thy marble halls, and gaze among The Gothic splendours of thy once bright day, When the first Francis was thy guest, and thou Thyself didst wear a crown upon thy brow!

PIETY.

METHOUGHT I heard a voice upon me call,
As listless in desponding mood I lay,
Whiling the melancholy hour away,
Mid fears that did my fondest hopes enthral.
'Twas not the trumpet voice of fame I heard,
Nor fortune's, nurse of impotence and care;
Nor yet the moanings deep of fell despair.
But oh! it was the voice of one that stirr'd
Sweet, sweet the accents came,
And stole in pure affection to my heart,
Healing within wounds bleeding 'neath the smar
Of bitterest wo. Up sprang my gladden'd frame
Restored, as henceforth brighter days to see;-
Thy voice it was I heard, meek Picty.

In every leaf!

CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH NORTON is a granddaughter of RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN, and the inheritor of his genius. While she was an infant, her father, THOMAS SHERIDAN, Sought the renovation of a shattered constitution in the tropical seas, but unsuccessfully, for four years after leaving England he died at the Cape of Good Hope, whence his widow returned home, and, living in seclusion, devoted herself with untiring assiduity to the education of her children, the author of The Dream, another daughter, now the Hon. Mrs. BLACKWOOD, author of the Irish Emigrant's Lament, etc., and a third, now Lady SEYMOUR.

The eldest two of these sisters exhibited remarkable precocity. They rivalled the celebrated Misses DAVIDSON of this country in the earliness and perfection of their mental development. At twelve CAROLINE SHERIDAN wrote verses which even now she would not be ashamed to see in print, and at seventeen she finished The Sorrows of Rosalie, which gave abundant promise of the reputation she has since acquired.

Two years afterward she was married to the Hon. GEORGE CHAPPLE NORTON, a brother to Lord GRANTLEY. Mr. NORTON proposed for Miss SHERIDAN when she was sixteen; but her mother postponed the contract three years, that the daughter might herself be better qualified to fix her choice. In this period she became acquainted with one whose early death alone prevented a union more consonant to her feelings; and when Mr. NORTON renewed his proposal he was accepted. The unhappiness of this union is too well known to be passed over in silence. Ingenuous and earnest as the poetical nature invariably is, trustful, ardent, and reliant upon its own intrinsic worthiness, it is too often regardless of those conventional forms which become both a barrier and a screen to the less pure in heart. Occupying the most enviable position in society, surpassing most of her sex as much in personal beauty as in genius, it were a wonder had she escaped the attacks of envy and malevolence. While Lord MELBOURNE was prime minister, urged on by the political ene

mies of that nobleman, Mr. NORTON instituted a prosecution on a charge involving her fidelity. All the low arts which well-feed attor neys and a malignant prosecutor could devise were put in requisition. Forgery, perjury, the searching scrutiny of private papers, the exhibition of the most thoughtless and trivial incidents and conversations in her history, were resorted to. But all were unavailing. She passed the ordeal with her white robes unsullied by the slightest stain. An acquittal by the jury and the people, however, poorly atoned the injustice of the accusation.

Mrs. NORTON has been styled the BYRON of her sex. Though she resembles that great poet in the energy and mournfulness so often pervading her pages, it would be erroneous to confound her sorrowful craving for sympathy, womanly endurance, resignation, and religious trust, with the refined misanthropy of Childe Harold. She feels intensely, and utters her thoughts with an impassioned energy; but they are not the vapourings of a sickly fancy, nor the morbid workings of undue self-love; they are the strong and healthful action of a noble nature abounding in the wealth of its affections, outraged and trampled upon, and turning from its idols to God when the altar at which it worshipped has been taken away.

Mrs. NORTON now lives in comparative retirement, admired by the world, and idolized by the few admitted to her friendship. Besides the Sorrows of Rosalie, The Undying One, and The Dream, (the last and best of her productions,) she has written many shorter poems of much beauty, which have probably been more widely read than the works of any poetess except Mrs. HEMANS.

The poetry of Mrs. NORTON is often distinguished for a masculine energy, and always for grace and harmony. She has taste, an affluent fancy, and an unusual ease of expression. Her principal fault is diffuseness; she writes herself through, giving us all the progress of her mind and the byplay of her thought. Her recent works are, however, more compressed and carefully finished than those of an earlier date.

DEDICATION OF THE DREAM,

TO THE DUCHESS OF SUTHERLAND.

Oscs more, my harp! once more, although I thought
Never to wake thy silent strings again,
A soothing dream thy gentle chords have wrought,
And my sad heart, which long hath dwelt in pain,
Soars, like a wild bird from a cypress bough,
Into the poet's heaven, and leaves dull grief below!
And unto thee-the beautiful and pure-

Whose lot is cast amid that busy world
Where only sluggish Dulness dwells secure,

And Fancy's generous wing is faintly furl'd; To thee-whose friendship kept its equal truth Through the most dreary hour of my embitter'd youth

I dedicate the lay. Ah! never bard,

In days when poverty was twin with song; Nor wandering harper, lonely and ill-starr'd,

Cheer'd by some castle's chief, and harbour'd long; Not Scott's Last Minstrel, in his trembling lays, Woke with a warmer heart the carnest meed of praise!

For easy are the alms the rich man spares

To sons of Genius, by misfortune bent, But thou gav'st me, what woman seldom dares, Belief in spite of many a cold dissentWhen, slander'd and malign'd, I stood apart, From those whose bounded power hath wrung, not crush'd, my heart.

Then, then, when cowards lied away my name, And scoff'd to see me feebly stem the tide; When some were kind on whom I had no claim, And some forsook on whom my love relied, And some, who might have battled for my sake, Stood off in doubt to see what turn "the world" would take

Thou gavest me that the poor do give the poor, Kind words, and holy wishes, and true tears; The loved, the near of kin could do no more,

Who changed not with the gloom of varying But clung the closer when I stood forlorn, [years, And blunted slander's dart with their indignant

scorn.

For they who credit crime are they who feel

Their own hearts weak to unresisted sin; Mem'ry, not judgment, prompts the thoughts which steal

O'er minds like these, an easy faith to win; And tales of broken truth are still believed Most readily by those who have themselves deceived. But, like a white swan down a troubled stream, Whose ruffling pinion hath the power to fling Aside the turbid drops which darkly gleam

And mar the freshness of her snowy wing, So thou, with queenly grace and gentle pride, Along the world's dark waves in purity dost glide; Thy pale and pearly cheek was never made

To crimson with a faint, false-hearted shame; 77 ou didst not shrink, of bitter tongues afraid, Who hunt in packs the object of their blame;

46

To thee the sad denial still held true,
For from thine own good thoughts thy heart ite
mercy drew.

And, though my faint and tributary rhymes
Add nothing to the glory of thy day,
Yet every poet hopes that after-times

Shall set some value on his votive lay,
And I would fain one gentle ¿sed record
Among the many such with which thy life is stored
So, when these lines, made in a mournful hour,
Are idly open'd to the stranger's eye,
A dream of thee, aroused by Fancy's power,
Shall be the first to wander floating by;
And they who never saw thy lovely face,
Shall pause, to conjure up a vision of its grace!

EXTRACT FROM THE DREAM.

Ou, Twilight! Sirit that does render birth To dim enchantmer ts; melting heaven with earth Leaving on craggy hills and running streams A softness like the atmosphere of dreams; Thy hour to all is welcome! Faint and sweet Thy light falls round the peasant's homeward feet, Who, slow returning from his task of toil, Sees the low sunset gild the cultured soil, And, tho' such radiance round him brightly glows, Marks the small spark his cottage window throws Still as his heart forestalls his weary pace, Fondly he dreams of each familiar face, Recalls the treasures of his narrow life, His rosy children and his sunbarnt wife, To whom his coming is the chief event Of simple days in cheerful labour spent. The rich man's chariot hath gone whirling past, And those poor cottagers have only cast One careless glance on all that show of pride, Then to their tasks turn'd quietly aside; But him they wait for, him they welcome home, Fond sentinels look forth to see him come; The fagot sent for when the fire grew dim, The frugal meal prepared are all for him; For him the watching of that sturdy boy, For him those smiles of tenderness and joy, For him-who plods his sauntering way along, Whistling the fragment of some village song!

TO MY BOOKS.

SILENT Companions of the lonely hour,

Friends, who can never alter or forsake, Who for inconstant roving have no power,

And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take.--Let me return to you; this turmoil ending

Which worldly cares have in my spirit wrough
And, o'er your old familiar pages bending,
Refresh my mind with many a tranquil thought
Till, haply meeting there, from time to time,
Fancies, the audible echo of my own,
"Twill be like hearing in a foreign clime

My native language spoke in friendly tone,
And with a sort of welcome I shall dwell
On these, my unripe musings told so well.

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