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I hide me in the dark arcade,

pure and so profound_has sunk and When she walks forth alone,

is sinking into how many thoughtful I feast upon her hair's rich braid - souls—how many loving hearts ! Her half-unclasped zone :

And now for lunch. Virgin honey I watch the fittings of her dress,

-we, protest-clear as amber-but The bending boughs between,

embalming no bees, for 'twas sliced off I trace her footstep's faery press

without injury to the wings of a single On' the scarcely ruffled green.

worker. The first of the season we

have seen—a composite of the essence “ Oh deep delight! the frail guitar

of heather and of clover-in which Trembles beneath her hand,

the flavour of the clover must prevailShe sings a song she brought from far,

for the mountains are not yet empurI cannot understand ;

pled. Such honey, such butter, and Her voice is always as from heaven,

such oat-cake make a delicious biteBut yet I seem to hear Its music best, when thus 'tis given

and how the taste improves on the All music to my ear.

palate, qualified with a smack of the

Glenlivet! Most considerate of hea. “ She' has turned her tender eyes around ven's creatures! Genevieve has left And seen me crouching there,

on the salver a silver thimble-but a And smiles, just as that last full sound little too wide for her delicatest foreIs fainting on the air ;

finger-and ever and anon from it we And now, I can go forth so proud, shall quaff the mountain-dew as Oberon And raise my head so tall —

may be supposed to lay his lips to the My heart within me beats so loud, fox-glove bell, impatient for “his And musical withal :

morning.” Ignoramuses gulp Glen

livet from quechs—the Cognoscenti " And there is summer all the while,

sipit from thimbles—thus—thus-thus Mid-winter though it be,

“ health--happiness—and a husband How should the universe not smile,

to Victoria, our gracious Queen !" When she has smiled on me ?

And now we shall be communicaFor though that smile can nothing more

tive, and whisper into your ear a secret Than merest pity prove, Yet pity, it was sung of yore,

about Christopher in liis Cave. TwenIs not so far from love.

ty years ago the Lord of the Castle

died—the Lady did not long survive “ From what a crowd of lovers' woes,

him--and till within a few summers My weakness is exempt !

it stood silent as their tomb.

The How far more fortunate than those sons and daughters were absent long Who mark me for contempt !

and distant far from their hereditary No fear of rival happiness

home, and the heart of the Highlands My fervent glory smothers,

sighed for the return of the brave and The zephyr fans me none the less

the beautiful. From Eastern climes That it is bland to others.

the Chief returned at last- in the

prime of manhood-rich and honoured “ Thus without share in coin or land, -for he had the gift of tongues, and But well content to hold

genius, and a commanding intellect, The wealth of Nature in my hand, and his wisdom imposed peace on the One flail of virgin gold

native princes. The younger brother My Love above me like a sun

had entered into the naval serviceMy own bright thoughts my wings

fought at Algiers—and on voyage of Thro' life I trust to flutter on,

discovery circumnavigated the globe. As gay as aught that sings.

Here for a while he has cast anchor" One hour I own I dread-to die

ready at any hour to slip bis cable

and go to sea. The youngest is in Alone and unbefriended

orders_and has come to the Castle No soothing voice, no tearful eyeBut that must soon be ended ;

for a month “ from the beautiful fields And then I shall receive my part

of England," and brought his bride. Of everlasting treasure,

And thou—the beloved of thy Father's In that just world where each man's heart friend, and of thy Mother's-loveWill be his only measure."

liest of Christian ladies-what name

so blessed as thine among the mounWorthy of ARCHÆUs himself tains in hall, in hut, in shieling whose “ Sexton's DAUGHTER"

- mine

own dear GENEVIEVE !"

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Thou art betrothed, and even now nor can it be needful that any should thy stately lover is by thy side. -the sublime uses of poetry, and the But in its happiness thy heart is solemn responsibilities of the poet." kind to the old man who kissed thine We have read much of the volume, eyes the day thy father was buried, and glanced it all through, not withand told thee that Heaven would hush out certain regrets almost amounting thy sobs and dry thy tears. She it to blame, but far more with love and was who furnished for the Hermit this admiration. In “The Seraphim” there his Cave—and led him into its twic is poetry and piety-genius and devolight-and sat by him in this niche for tion; but the awful Idea of the Poem an hour and more, with her hand in the Crucifixion-is not sustained his—and left him here to his medita- and we almost wish it unwritten. tions—gliding away, and turning ere The gifted writer says_“I thought she reached the woods, to wave him that, had Æschylus lived after the so many short and cheerful farewells! incarnation and crucifixion of our

And where are her brothers and their Lord Jesus Christ, he might have friends ? On the Great Loch-or by the turned, if not in moral and intellectual, River—or in the Forest. The late yet in poetic faith, from the solitude Floods have brought up the salmon of Caucasus to the deeper desertness from the sea-and we heard from our of that crowded Jerusalem where none turret, soon after midnight, the red had any pity; from the ' faded white deer belling among the cliifs.

flower' of the Titanic brow, to the 'Twas feared the family would fall withered grass' of a Heart trampled into decay—and they were widely on by its own beloved ; from the gloscattered after their parents' deaths. rying of him who gloried that he But the brother of the late chieftain could not die, to the sublimer meek was a faithful steward_and the for- ness of the Taster of death for every tunes of the house were more than re- man; from the taunt stung into being stored. The Prince is in his palace. by the torment, to His more awful siLast night how beautiful the array in lence, when the agony stood dumb that illumined hall! There sat Gene- before the love! And I thought how, vieve at her harp-harmonious far from the height of this great argu. beyond the clarshech-and sung, while ment,' the scenery of the Prometheus all was hush, lays of many lands, each would have dwarfed itself even in the to its own native music—but none eyes of its poet-how the fissures of so spake her tearful or kindling eyes his rocks and the innumerous smiles -50 dear to the singer's soul as the of his ocean would have closed and wild Gaelic airs breathed down by waned into blankness,--and his demi. tradition from the olden time that god stood confest, so human a concepfirst heard them in the wilderness, as tion as to fall below the aspiration of from the voice of one exulting for a his own humanity. He would have triumph, or of a weeper seeking by its turned from such to the rent rocks and own music to solace her grief ! darkened sun-rent and darkened by

What other pretty book is this ? a sympathy thrilling through nature, “ The Seraphim, and other Poems, by but leaving man's heart untouched Elizabeth Barnett, author of a Trans- to the multitudes, whose victim was lation of Prometheus Bound.” High their Saviour—to the Victim, whose adventure for a Lady — implying a sustaining thought beneath an unexknowledge of Hebrew—or if not-of ampled agony, was not the Titanic Greek. No common mind displays “I can revenge,' but the celestial • I itself in this Preface pregnant with can forgive!'” lofty thoughts. Yet is her heart The poems that follow are on subjects humble withal--and she wins her way within the compass of her powers into ours by these words—“ I assume there is beauty in them all and some of no power of art, except that power of them, we think, are altogether beautiful. love towards it, which has remained from the “ Poet's Vow," “ The Rowith me from my childhood until now. maunt of Margaret,” “ Isobel's Child,” In the power of such a love, and in compositions of considerable length, the event of my life being prolonged, might be selected passages of deep I would fain hope to write hereafter pathos-especially from the last, in better verses ; but I never can feel which the workings of a mother's more intensely than at this moment- love through all the phases of fear,

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and hope, and despair, and heavenly For lapse of water, swell of breeze, consolation, are given with extraordi. Or nut-fruit falling from the trees ! nary power, while there is an originality in the whole cast and conception “ The stir without the glow of passion-of the strain that beyond all dispute The triumph of the martproves the possession of genius. But The gold and silver's dreary clashing they are all disfigured by much imper

With man's metallic heartfect and some bad writing—and the The wheeled pomp, the pauper treadfair author is too often seen struggling These only sounds are heard instead. in vain to give due expression to the feelings that beset her, and entangled

Yet still, as on my human hand in a web of words. “ I would fain

Their fearless heads they lean,

And almost seem to understand hope to write hereafter better verses

What human musings mean— —and we do not fear that her hopes

(With such a plaintive gaze their eyne will not be fulfilled—for she “ hath

Are fastened upwardly to mine !) that within which passeth show," but will, we predict, some day shine forth

“ Their chant is soft as on the nest, with conspicuous splendour.

Beneath the suuny sky : Some of the shorter compositions For love that stirred it in their breast, are almost all we could desire—and

Remains undyingly, let us murmur some of them to our- And 'neath the city's shade, can keep selves in our Cave.

The well of music clear and deep.

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many a gentle girl_and mothers will “ I called it my wilderness,
ask their daughters to recite them, For no one entered there but I.
that they may watch the workings of The sheep looked in, the t'

espy, nature in the eyes loving innocence- And passed ne'ertheless. and even fathers looking on and listening

“ The trees were interwoven wild,

And spread their boughs enough about “ May from their eyelids wipe the tear

To keep both sheep and shepherd out, That sacred pity had engendered.”

But not a happy child. Surely Poetesses (is there such a word ?) are very happy, in spite of all

Adventurous joy it was for me! the “ natural sorrows, griefs, and

I crept beneath the boughs, and found

A circle smooth of mossy ground pains," to which their exquisitely sensitive being must be perpetually

Beneath a poplar tree. alive. Tighe suffered woman's worst -wounded affections ; nor was He

Old garden rose-trees hedged it in

Bedropt with roses waxen-white, maps without a like affliction—but she

Well satisfied with dew and light, who died first had a cheerful genius,

And careless to be seen. and fancy led her heart into lands of enchantment, where her human life

“ Long years ago it might befall, was lulled in repose, and its woes

When all the garden flowers were trim, must have often and long been for

The grave old gardener prided him gotten in the midst of visionary bliss. On these the most of all; That other Sweetest Singer had children round her knees, and sufficient “ And Lady stately overmuch, happiness it must have been for her, Who moved with a silken noise, in that long desertion, to see

Blushed near them, dreaming of the voice “ How like a new existence to her heart That likened her to such ! Uprose those living flowers beneath her eyes,"

“ And these to make a diadem, now flourishing, when she is gone,

She may have often plucked and twined ;

Half smiling as it came to mind, in the light of Heaven. Lætitia Lan

That few would look at them. don—a name not to be merged—is a joyous spirit not unacquainted with

“ Oh ! little thought that Lady proud, grief_her genius was invigorated by a child would watch her fair white rose, duty-pow it is guarded by love—and

When buried lay her whiter brows, in good time—may gentler suns shine

And silk was changed for shroud! again on her laurelled head-returning to us from the “far countrie,"

“Nor thought that gardener, full of scorns that may even now be inspiring into for men unlearn’d and simple phrase, her startled imagination the beauty of A child would bring it all its praise, “a New Song."

By creeping through the thorns : And our Elizabeth—she too is happy—though in her happiness she loveth “ To me upon my low moss seat, to veil with a melancholy haze the Though never a dream the roses sent brightness of her childhood—and of her of science or love's compliment, maidenhood—but the clouds we raise I ween they smelt as sweet. we can ourselves dispel-and far away yet beyond the horizon are those that “ Nor ever a grief was mine, to see may gather round the decline of her The trace of human step departed— life.

Because the garden was deserted,

The blyther place for me!

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THE DESERTED GARDEN.

“ I mind me in the days departed, How often underneath the sun, With childish bounds I used to run

To a garden long deserted.

“ Friends, blame me not ! a narrow ken Hath childhood 'twixt the sun and sward ! We draw the moral afterward

We feel the gladness then!

“ The beds and walks were vanished quite;
And wheresoe'er had fallen the spade,
The greenest grasses Nature led,

To sanctify her right.

“ And gladdest hours for me did glide
In silence at the rose-tree wall :
A thrush made gladness musical

Upon the other side,

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“ Nor he nor I did e'er incline

“ Has not love,” says Elizabeth in To mar or pluck the blossoms white- her Preface, “ a deeper mystery than How should I know but that they might wisdom, and a more ineffable lustre Lead lives as glad as mine?

than power? I believe it has. I ven

ture to believe those beautiful and of. " To make my hermit-home complete, ten-quoted words, God is Love,' to I brought clear water from the spring

be even less an expression of conde. Praised in its own low murmuring, scension towards the finite, than an asAnd cresses glossy wet.

sertion of essential dignity in Him,

who is infinite." To illustrate that “ And so, I thought my likeness grew

attribute she wrote “ The Seraphim." (Without the melancholy tale)

But there is nothing in that poem so To gentle hermit of the dale, And Angelina too!

affecting as the following simple lines.

They cannot be read without bring" For oft I read within my nook

ing to mind the sum of all consolation, Such minstrel stories! till the breeze

“ Come unto me all ye who labour Made sounds poetic in the trees,

and are heavy laden, and I will give And then I shut the book.

you rest.”

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