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from the days of early youth; whose heart to his had been doubly bound by the tendrils that sprung from their mutual love; whose heart now demanded the support of his, the support which his would amply receive from hers in return.

Happy souls! happy, even under all your calamities! For if there be pleasure, if there be consolation, if there be happiness on earth, they are nowhere to be so certainly found, as in the unbounded confidence, and deeply-rooted attachment, of two congenial and conjugal bosoms. Deeply affected by what I had seen and heard, I entered my father's cottage strong in good resolutions, and praying that I might have the power, in all the afflictions that might await me, to say, with the poor peasant: "The Lord's will be done."

KNOX

LESSON XIX

POETRY OF MRS. HEMANS.

BOTH critics and casual readers have united in pronouncing the poetry of Mrs. Hemans to be essentially feminine. The whole circle of the domestic affections; the hallowed ministry of woman, at the cradle, the hearth-stone, and the death-bed, were its chosen themes. Where have the disinterested, selfsacrificing virtues of her sex,

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been depicted by such graphic power? Who else, with a single dash of the pencil, has portrayed, at once, the lot of woman and her refuge ?

"To love on, through all things-therefore, pray!"

The warlike imagery, so predominant in her poetry, is not a departure from its feminine elements. The chivalric strain, though frequent and diffuse, is rather an episode, than the key-tone of her spirit. Her genius seeks not to portray even its heroes amid the fury of the fight, but rather in the mild glow of those virtues or sympathies which bind them to their fellow-men. But with what a free breath and sunny smile, does she turn from these to the simple themes of nature and affection, like the shepherd-boy, springing from the heavy

armor of the moody king of Israel, to gather the smooth stones of the clear, tuneful brook? Which of those high wrought, chivalric strains reveals the deep gushing of the secret heart, like the fearful night-watch of the devoted Gertrude?

"Her hands were clasped, her dark eyes raised,

The breeze threw back her hair;
Up to the fearful wheel she gazed;
All that she loved was there.

"She wiped the death-damps from his brow,
With her pale hands and soft,

Whose touch, upon the lute-chords low,
Had stilled his heart so oft."

In which of the spirit-stirring, belligerent lays, does the trembling sweetness of the poet's own soul irresistibly steal out, as in "The Voice of Spring," "The Graves of a Household," “The Homes of England," "The Treasures of the Deep," the thrilling sigh of the "Palm-Tree," or the full, sustained, sublime inspiration of the "Forest Sanctuary?"?

The genius of Mrs. Hemans was as pure and feminine in its impulses, as in its out-pourings. That ambition which impels the man of genius to "scorn delights, and live laborious days," that he may walk on the high places of the world's renown, and leave a name which shall be as a trumpet-tone to all time, woke no answering echo in her bosom. Sympathy, not fame, was the desire of her being.

"Fame hath a voice whose thrilling tone
Can bid the life-pulse beat,

As when a trumpet's note hath blown,
Calling the brave to meet :

But mine, let mine, —a woman's breast,
By words of home-born love be blessed."

The approbation of the good, and the assurance that her efforts had imparted pleasure, comfort, or instruction, were indeed precious rewards. Yet even these, with true woman's nature, she valued more for the sake of others, than for her own. How beautifully does she express this sentiment to Miss Baillie! "Your praise will ever be valuable, yet it comes to me now, mingled with mournfulness, for the ear to which it ever brought the greatest delight, is closed. The last winter deprived me of my truest, tenderest friend,—that

mother, by whose unwearied spirit of hope and love, I have been encouraged to bear on, through all the obstacles that have beset my path!"

And when the celebrity which she had never sought, had extended itself to the western, as well as her own hemisphere, she writes feelingly in a letter to Miss Mitford; "Will you think me weak, when I tell you that I shed tears over your letter, from the idea of the pleasure it would have given my mother? I am sure that you will agree with me, that fame can afford only reflected delight to a woman." Her poetry often echoes the same voice of the heart.

"Thou shalt have fame! Oh mockery! Give the reed
From storms a shelter; give the drooping vine
Something round which its tendrils may entwine;
Give the parched flower a rain drop; and the meed

Of love's kind words to woman."

At the head of the school of poetry, essentially feminine, we place her, "whose name we know not now in heaven." In that department, she would have been crowned at the Olympic games, were the whole civilized world her auditor and judge.

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And now we grieve to say farewell to thee, sweet ruler of the tuneful harp! The young, free-hearted west, is a weeper at thy grave. The hymns of the Pilgrim Fathers have found an echo in thy lofty strain; and, from the storm-beaten rock where they landed, to the Gulf where the Floridian orangegrove and the magnolia mingle their perfumes; from the sounding shores of the Atlantic, to the lone wilds of the Oregon, where the red man wanders; thine image is cherished, and thy memory is dear. The emigrant mother, toiling over steep, rugged mountains, reads thy poems in the rude vehicle which bears all her treasures to a stranger-land. The lisping child responds to her voice, amid those deep solitudes, and the words are thine. Thou art with them in their unfloored hut, teaching them to love the home which God has given.

We recall the word. Thou
Race after race may fall like

Why have we said farewell? art still with us, gentle spirit. autumnal leaves, and our broad prairies become the site of thronged cities; but thou shalt still be there, undecaying, un

changed. Yes, sit by our hearth-stones, and sing there, when we shall be gathered to the fathers. When by our children's children our memory is forgotten, thou shalt still be remembered; thou shalt lift thy voice of melody to unborn ages, and tell them of the Better Land.

MRS. SIGOURNEY.

LESSON XX.

DEATH OF MRS. HEMANS.

BRING flowers to crown the cup and lute;
Bring flowers, the bride is near;
Bring flowers to soothe the captive's cell,
Bring flowers to strew the bier:
Bring flowers; thus said the lovely song;
And shall they not be brought

To her who linked the offering

With feeling and with thought?

Bring flowers, the perfumed and the pure,
Those with the morning dew,

A sigh in every fragrant leaf,

A tear on every hue.

So pure, so sweet thy life has been,
So filling earth and air

With odors and with loveliness,
Till common scenes grew fair.

Thy song around our daily path
Flung beauty born of dreams,
That shadows on the actual world
The spirit's sunny gleams.
Mysterious influence, that on earth
Brings down the Heaven above,
And fills the universal heart
With universal love.

And thou from far and foreign lands
Didst bring back many a tone,
And giving such new music still,

A music of thine own..

A lofty strain of generous thoughts,
And yet subdued and sweet,
An angel's song, who sings of earth,
Whose cares are at his feet.

And yet thy song is sorrowful,
Its beauty is not bloom;

The hopes of which it breathes, are hopes

That look beyond the tomb; Thy song is sorrowful as winds

That wander o'er the plain,

And ask for summer's banished flowers,
And ask for them in vain.

Ah! dearly purchased is the gift,
The gift of song like thine:
A fated doom is hers who stands,
The priestess of the shrine.
The crowd, they only see the crown,
They only hear the hymn;

They mark not that the cheek is pale,
And that the eye is dim.

Wound to a pitch too exquisite,

The soul's fine chords are wrung;

With misery and melody

They are too highly strung.
The heart is made too sensitive
The daily pain to bear;
It beats in music, but it beats
Beneath a deep despair.

It never meets the love it paints,
The love for which it pines;
Too much of Heaven is in the faith
That such a heart enshrines.
The meteor wreath the poet wears,

Must make a lonely lot;

It dazzles, only to divied

From those who wear it not.

Let others thank thee; 'twas for them
Thy soft leaves thou didst wreathe;

The red rose wastes itself in sighs
Whose sweetness others breathe!

And they have thanked thee; many a lip

Has asked of thine for words,

When thoughts, life's finer thoughts, have touched The spirit's inmost chords.

How many loved and honored thee

Who only knew thy name;

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