MRS. BUTLER is a daughter of CHARLES KEMBLE, and a niece of JOHN PHILIP KEMBLE and Mrs. SIDDONS. After a brilliant career at the Drury Lane Theatre, she in 1832 came with her father to the United States, where she played with unprecedented success in the principal cities, confirming a reputation already acquired as the greatest British actress of the age. In 1834 she retired from the stage and was married to Mr. PIERCE BUTLER of Philadelphia.

Mrs. BUTLER is among the few of her profession who have been eminent in the world of letters. Her dramas, Francis the First and the Star of Seville, were written when she was very young, and do not retain possession of the stage, though superior to many pieces

THE PRAYER OF A LONELY HEART.

I AM alone-Oh be thou near to me, Great God! from whom the meanest are not far. Not in presumption of the daring spirit, Striving to find the secrets of itself, Make I my weeping prayer; in the deep want Of utter loneliness, my God! I seek thee; If the worm may creep up to thy fellowship, Or dust, instinct with yearning, rise towards thee. I have no fellow, Father! of my kind; None that be kindred, none companion to me, And the vast love, and harmony, and brotherhood, Of the dumb creatures thou hast made below me, Vexes my soul with its own bitter lot. Around me grow the trees, each by the other; Innumerable leaves, each like the other, Whisper and breathe, and live and move together. Around me spring the flowers; each rosy cup Hath sisters leaning their fair cheeks against it. The birds fly all above me; not alone, But coupled in free fellowship, or mustering A joyous band, sweeping in companies The wide blue fields between the clouds;-the clouds Troop in society, each on the other Shedding, like sympathy, reflected light. The waves, a multitude, together run To the great breast of the receiving sea: Nothing but hath its kind, its company, O God! save I alone!-then, let me come, Good Father! to thy feet; when, even as now, Tears, that no human hand is near to wipe, O'erbrim my eyes, oh wipe them, thou, my Father! When in my heart the stores of its affections, Piled up unused, lock'd fast, are like to urst

which in this respect have been more forta nate. The vc ume of her shorter poems pub lished in Philadelphia i 1 1844 entitles her to be ranked with the first class of living English poetesses. Their general tone is melancholy and desponding; but they are vigorous in thought and execution, and free from the sickly sentiment and puerile expression for which so much of the verse of the day is chiefly distinguished. She has written besides the works before mentioned A Journal, which was published on her return from this country to London. It is a clever, gossipping book, with such absurdities of opinion as might have been expected from a commentator on national character of her age and position: very amusing and very harmless.

The fleshly casket, that may not contain them,
Let me come nigh to thee;-accept them thou,
Dear Father!-Fount of love! Compassionate God!
When in my spirit burns the fire, the power
That have made men utter the words of angels,
And none are near to bid me speak and live:
Hearken, O Father! Maker of my spirit!
God of my soul, to thee I will outpour
The hymns resounding through my troubled mind,
The sighs and sorrows of my lonely heart,
The tears and weeping of my weary eyes:
Be thou my fellow, glorious, gracious God!
And fit me for such fellowship with thee!

ON A FORGET-ME-NOT,

BROUGHT FROM SWITZERLAND.

FLOWER of the mountain! by the wanderer's hand Robb'd of thy beauty's short-lived sunny day; Didst thou but blow to gem the stranger's way. And bloom to wither in the stranger's land? Hueless and scentless as thou art,

How much that stirs the memory, How much, much more, that thrills the hea Thou faded thing, yet lives in thee! Where is thy beauty? in the grassy blade [now, There lives more fragrance and more freshness Yet oh! not all the flowers that bloom and fade Are half so dear to memory's eye as thou. The dew that on the mountain lies, The breeze that o'er the mountain sighs, Thy parent stem will nurse and nourish But thou-not e'en those sunny eyes, As bright, as blue as thine own skies, Thou faded thing! can make thee flour

ON A MUSICAL BOX.

Poor little sprite! in that dark, narrow cell

Caged by the law of man's resistless might! With thy sweet, liquid notes, by some strong spell, Compell'd to minister to his delight, Whence, what art thou art thou a fairy wight

Caught sleeping in some lily's snowy bell, Where thou hadst crept, to rock in the moonlight, And drink the starry dew-drops as they fell? Say, dost thou think, sometimes when thou art singing,

Of thy wild haunt upon the mountain's brow, Where thou wert wont to list the heath-bells ringing, And sail upon the sunset's amber glow? When thou art weary of thy oft-told theme, Say, dost thou think of the clear pebbly stream, Upon whose mossy brink thy fellows play, Dancing in circles by the moon's soft beam, Hiding in blossoms from the sun's fierce gleam. Whilst thou in darkness sing'st thy life away. And canst thou feel when the spring-time returns, Filling the earth with fragrance and with glee; When in the wide creation nothing mourns,

Of all that lives, save that which is not free? Oh! if thou couldst, and we could hear thy prayer, How would thy little voice beseeching cry, For one short draught of the sweet morning air. For one short glimpse of the clear, azure sky! Perchance thou sing'st in hopes thou shalt be free, Sweetly and patiently thy task fulfilling; While thy sad thoughts are wandering with the bee, To every bud with honey-dew distilling. l'hat hope is vain: for even couldst thou wing Thy homeward flight back to the greenwood gay, Thou'st be a shunn'd and a forsaken thing,

'Mongst the companions of thy happier day. For fairy sprites, like many other creatures, Bear fleeting memories, that come and go; Nor can they oft recall familiar features,

By absence touch'd, or clouded o'er with wo. Then rest content with sorrow: for there be Many that must that lesson learn with thee; And still thy wild notes warble cheerfully, Till, when thy tiny voice begins to fail, For thy lost bliss sing but one parting wail, Poor little sprite! and then sleep peacefully!

A WISH.

OH! that I were a fairy sprite to wander In forest paths, o'erarch'd with oak and beech; Where the sun's yellow light, in slanting rays, Sleeps on the dewy moss; what time the breath Of early morn stirs the white hawthorn boughs, And fills the air with showers of snowy blossoms. Or lie at sunset mid the purple heather, Listening the silver music that rings out From the pale mountain bells, sway'd by the wind. Or sit in rocky clefts above the sea, While one by one the evening stars shine forth Among the gathering clouds, that strew the heavens Like floating purple wreaths of mournful night

shade!

LINES

WRITTEN IN LONDON.

STRUGGLE not with thy life!-the heavy doom
Resist not, it will bow thee like a slave:
Strive not! thou shalt not conquer; to thy tomb
Thou shalt go crush'd and ground, though ne'e

so brave.

Complain not of thy life!-for what art thou

More than thy fellows, that thou should'st not weep?

Brave thoughts still lodg, beneath a furrow'd brow, And the way-wearied nave the sweetest sleep. Marvel not at thy life!-patience shall see

The perfect work of wisdom to her given, Hold fast thy soul through this high mystery, And it shall lead thee to the gates of heaven.

FRAGMENT.

WALKING by moonlight on the golden margin
That binds the silver sea, I fell to thinking
Of all the wild imaginings that man
Hath peopled heaven, and earth, and ocean with;
Making fair nature's solitary haunts

Alive with beings, beautiful and fearful.
And as the chain of thought grew, link by link,
It seem'd as though the midnight heavens wax'd
brighter,

The stars gazed fix'dly with their golden eyes,
And a strange light play'd o'er each sleeping billow,
That laid its head upon the sandy beach.
Anon there came along the rocky shore
A far-off sound of sweetest minstrelsy.
From no one point of heaven or earth it came;
But under, over, and about it breathed;
Filling my soul with thrilling, fearful pleasure.
It swell'd, as though borne on the floating wings
Of the midsummer breeze; it died away
Towards heaven, as though it sank into the clouds,
That one by one melted like flakes of snow
In the moonbeams. Then came a rushing so nd,
Like countless wings of bees, or butterflies;
And suddenly, as far as eye might view,
The coast was peopled with a world of elves,
Who in fantastic ringlets danced around,
With antic gestures, and wild beckoning motion,
Aimed at the moon. White was their snowy vesture,
And shining as the Alps, when that the sun
Gems their pale robes with diamonds. On their
heads

Were wreaths of crimson and of yellow foxaore.
They were all fair, and light as dreams. Anon
The dance broke off; and sailing through the air
Some one way, and some other, they did each
Alight upon some waving branch or flower
That garlanded the rocks upon the shore.
One, chiefly did I mark; one tiny sprite,
Who crept into an orange flower-bell,
And there lay nestling, whilst his eager lips
Drank from its virgin chalice the night dew,
That glisten'd, like a pearl, in its white bosom.

THE VISION OF LIFE.

DEATH and I

On a hill so high

Stood side by side,

And we saw below,
Running to and fro,

All things that be in the world so w. e.

Ten thousand cries
From the gulf did rise,

With a wild, discordant sound;
Laughter and wailing,
Prayer and railing,

As the ball spun round and round.

And over all

Hung a floating pall

Of dark and gory veils :

"Tis the blood of years, And the sighs and tears Which this noisome marsh exhales.

All this did seem

Like a fearful dream,

Till Death cried, with a joyful cry:
"Look down! look down!

It is all mine own,
Here comes life's pageant by!"

Like to a masque in ancient revelries,

With mingling sound of thousand harmonies,
Soft lute and viol, trumpet-blast and gong,
They came along, and still they came along!
Thousands, and tens of thousands, all that e'er
Peopled the earth or plough'd the unfathom'd deep,
All that now breathe the universal air,

And all that in the womb of time yet sleep.

Before this mighty host a woman came,
With hurried feet and oft-averted head;
With accursed light

Her eyes were bright,

And with inviting hand them on she beckoned. Her follow'd close, with wild acclaim, Her servants three: Lust, with his eye of fire, And burning lips, that tremble with desire,

Pale, sunken cheek ;—and, as he stagger'd by, The trumpet-blast was hush'd, and there arose A melting strain of such soft melody

As breathed into the soul love's ecstasies and woes.

By the pure spring, whose haunted waters flow
Through thy sequester'd dell unto the sea,
At sunny noon, I will appear to thee:
Not troubling the still fount with drops of wo,
As when I last took leave of it and thee,
But gazing up at thee with tranquil brow,
And eyes full of life's early happiness,
Of strength, of hope, of joy, and tenderness.
Beneath the shadowy tree, where thou and I
Were wont to sit, studying the harmony
Of gentle Shakspeare, and of Milton high,
At sunny noon I will be heard by thee;
Not sobbing forth each oft-repeated sound,
As when I last falter'd them o'er to thee,
But uttering them in the air around,

With youth's clear, laughing voice of meloo,. On the wild shore of the eternal deep,

Where we have stray'd so oft, and stood so long Watching the mighty water's conquering sweep, And listening to their loud, triumphant song, At sunny noon, dearest! I'll be with thee;

Not as when last I linger'd on the strand, Tracing our names on the inconstant sand; But in each bright thing that around shall be: My voice shall call thee from the ocean's breast, Thou'lt see my hair in its bright showery crest, In its dark rocky depths thou'lt see my eyes, My form shall be the light cloud in the skies, My spirit shall be with thee, warm and bright, And flood thee o'er with love, and life, and light.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

How passing sad! Listen, it sings again!
Art thou a spirit, that amongst the boughs
The livelong day dost chant that wondrous strain,
Making wan Dian stoop her silver brows
Out of the clouds to hear thee?
Who shall say,
Thou lone one! that thy melody is gay,
Let him come listen now to that one note

That thou art pouring o'er and o'er again Through the sweet echoes of thy mellow throat, With such a sobbing sound of deep, deep pain. I prithee cease thy song! for from my heart Thouast made memory's bitter waters start, And fill'd my weary eyes with the soul's rain

RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES is a native of Yorkshire, and was born about the year 1809. On the completion of his education at Cambridge he travelled a considerable time on the Continent, and soon after his return home was elected a member of the House of Commons, for Pontefract. He has voted in Parliament with the Tories, but has won little distinction as a politician.

The poetical works of Mr. MILNES are Memorials of a Tour in Greece, published in 1834, Poems of Many Years, in 1838, Poetry for the People, in 1840, and Palm Leaves, in 1844. The last volume was written during a tour through Egypt and the Levant in 1842 and 1843, and is an attempt to instruct the western world in oriental modes of thought and feeling, by a series of poems in the oriental spirit, not an unsuccessful effort, but one with precedents, both in England and on the Continent. A complete edition of his writings, in four volumes, has recently been published in London by Mr. Moxon. I believe none of them have been reprinted in this country.

LONELY MATURITY.

WHEN from the key-stone of the arch of life
Man his ascent with earnest eyes surveys,
Sums and divides the steps of peace and strife,
And numbers o'er his good and evil days,—

If then, as well may be, he stand alone,

How will his heart recall the youthful throng, Who leap'd with helping hands from stone to stone, And cheer'd the progress with their choral song! How will sad memory point where, here and there, Friend after friend, by falsehood or by fate, From him or from each other parted were,

And love sometimes become the nurse of hate.

Yet at this hour no feelings dark or fierce,
No harsh desire to punish or condemn,
Through the grave silence of the past can pierce,—
Reproach, if such there be, is not for them.
Rather, he thinks, he held not duly dear

Love, the best gift that man on man bestows,
While round his downward path, recluse and drear,
He feels the chill, indifferent shadows close.
Old lin.bs, once broken, hardly knit together,-
Seldom old hearts with other hearts combine;
Suspicion coarsely weighs the fancy's feather;
Experience tests and mars the sense divine;

In Leucas, one of his earlier productions, Mr. MILNES discloses his poetical theory Reproaching SAPPHIO, he says,

"Poesy, which in chaste repose abides,

As in its atmosphere; that placid flower
Thou hast exposed to passion's fiery tides."

With him poetry is the expression of beauty, not of passion, and no one more fully realizes his own ideal in his works, which are serene and contemplative, and pervaded by a true and genial philosophy. They are unequal, but there is about them that indescribable charm which indicates genuineness of feeling This is particularly observable in the pieces having reference to the affections. The simplicity of the incidents portrayed, and the seeming artlessness of the diction, sometimes remind us of WORDSWORTH, but there is a point and meaning in his effusions which makes him occasionally superior to the author of the Excursion in pathos, however much he may at times fall below him in philosophical sentiment. He was elected a member for Pontefract in 1837, and was elevated to the peerage in 1863.

Thus now, though ever loth to underprize

Youth's sacred passions and delicious tears, Still worthier seeins to his reflective eyes The friendship that sustains maturer years.

Why did I not," his spirit murmurs deep, "At every cost of momentary pride, Preserve the love for which in vain I weep; Why had I wish, or hope, or sense beside "Oh cruel issue of some selfish thought!

Oh long, long echo of some angry tone! Oh fruitless lesson, mercilessly taught, Alone to linger and to die alone!

"No one again upon my breast to fall, To name me by my common Christian name,No one in mutual banter to recall

Some youthful folly or some boyish game; "No one with whom to reckon and compare

The good we won or miss'd; no one to draw Excuses from past circumstance or care,

And mitigate the world's unreasoning law !

"Were I one moment with that presence blest,
I would o'erwhelm him with my humble pain,
I would invade the soul I once possest.
And once for all my ancient love regain!”

THE LAY OF THE HUMBLE.

I HAVE NO Comeliness of frame,

No pleasant range of feature; I'm feeble, as when first I came

To earth, a weeping creature;
My voice is low whene'er I speak,
And singing faint my song;

But though thus cast among the weak,
I envy not the strong.

The trivial part in life I play

Can have so light a bearing

On other men, who, night or day,
For me are never caring;

That, though I find not much to bless,
Nor food for exaltation,

I know that I am tempted less,-
And that is consolation.

The beautiful! the noble blood!

I shrink as they pass by,Such power for evil or for good

Is flashing from each eye;

They are indeed the stewards of Heaven,
High-headed and strong-handed:
From those, to whom so much is given,
How much may be demanded!

'Tis true, I am hard buffetted,

Though few can be my foes,
Harsh words fall heavy on my head,
And unresisted blows;

But then I think, "had I been born,-
Hot spirit-sturdy frame-
And passion prompt to follow scorn,-
I might have done the same."
To me men are for what they are,
They wear no masks with me,
I never sicken'd at the jar
Of ill-tuned flattery;

I never mourn'd affections lent
In folly or in blindness;—

The kindness that on me is spent
Is pure, unasking kindness.

And most of all, I never felt

The agonizing sense

Of seeing love from passion melt
Into indifference;

The fearful shame, that day by day

Burns onward, still to burn,

To have thrown your precious heart away,

And met this black return.

I almost fancy that the more

I am cast out from men,

Nature has made me of her store

A worthier denizen;

As if it pleased her to caress

A plant grown up so wild,

As if the being parentless

Made me the more her child.

Athwart my face when blushes pass
To be so poor and weak,

I fell into the dewy grass,
And cool my fever'd theek;

And hear a music strangely made,

That you have never heard,

A sprite in every rustling blade,
That sings like any bird.

My dreams are dreams of pleasantness,
But yet I always run,

As to a father's morning kiss,

When rises the round sun;

I see the flowers on stalk and stem,
Light shrubs, and poplars tall,
Enjoy the breeze,-I rock with them,---
We're merry brothers all.

I do remember well, when first
I saw the great blue sea,-

It was no stranger-face, that burst
In terror upon me;

My heart began, from the first glance,
His solemn pulse to follow;

I danced with every billow's dance,
And shouted to their hollo.

The lamb that at it's mother's sile Reclines, a tremulous thing, The robin in cold winter-tide,

The linnet in the spring, All seem to be of kin to me,

And love my slender hand,For we are bound, by God's decree, In one defensive band.

And children, who the worldly mind And ways have not put on,

Are ever glad in me to find

A blithe companion:

And when for play they leave their homes, Left to their own sweet glee,

They hear my step, and cry, "He comes

Our little friend,-'tis he."

Have you been out some starry night,

And found it joy to bend

Your eyes to one particular light,

Till it became a friend?

And then, so loved that glistening spot,
That, whether it were far

Or more or less, it matter'd not,-
It still was your own star.

Thus, and thus only, can you know.
How I, even scornéd I,

Can live in love, though set so low,

And my ladie-love so high;
Thus learn, that on this varied ball,
Whate'er can breathe and move,

The meanest, lornest thing of all--
Still owns its right to love.

With no fair round of household cares
Will my lone heart be blest,
Never the snow of my old hairs

Will touch a loving breast;
No darling pledge of spousal faith
Shall I be found possessing,
To whom a blessing with my braaib
Would be a double blessing: