Thy wonder stay: like men, this was their doom: And oft their fathers, childless and bereaved, Wept o'er their graves, when they themselves were green; And on them fell, as fell on every age, As on their authors fell, oblivious Night, Which o'er the past lay darkling, heavy, still, Impenetrable, motionless, and sad, Having his dismal leaden plumage, stirr'd NOVELS. The story-telling tribe alone outran And room had lack'd, had not their life been short. Thou thus, express'd in gentle phrase, which leaves With nature, with itself and truth at war: SECTION XXI. MRS. FELICIA D. HEMANS, "The born in 1793, of Irish and German origin, passed her youth among the mountains and valleys of North Wales, the sublime and beautiful scenes of which produced their natural effects upon her mind. earnest and continual study of Shakspeare imparted to her the power of giving language to thought; and before she had entered her thirteenth year, a printed collection of her Juvenile Poems was given to the world. From this period till her death, in 1835, she has sent forth volume after volume, each surpassing the other in sweetness and power. A tone of gentle, unforced, and persuasive goodness pervades her poetry; it displays no fiery passion and resorts to no vehement appeal: it is often sad, but never exhibits a complaining spirit; her diction is harmonious and free; her themes, though infinitely varied, are all happily chosen, and treated with grace, originality, and judgment. Her poetry is full of images, but they are always natural and true; it is studded with ornaments, but they are never unbecoming.” THE SWITZER'S WIFE. The bright blood left the youthful mother's cheek; Like a frail harp-string, shaken by the storm. And she, that ever through her home had moved And timid in her happiness the while, Of my desponding tears; now lift once more, I can bear all but seeing thee subdued- "Go forth beside the waters, and along The chamois-paths, and through the forests go; God shall be with thee, my beloved!-Away! To clarion-sounds upon the ringing air; He caught her to his breast, while proud tears breaking My bride, my wife, the mother to my child! In the clear starlight; he, the strength to rouse To rock her child beneath the whispering boughs, With a low hymn, amid the stillness deep. We should be glad to quote more largely from this gifted poetess, and from others of Great Britain, but must limit ourselves to a criticism of Professor Wilson, of Edinburgh, upon them-as a class. The BRITISH POETESSES, he says, seem a series of exceedingly sensible maids and matrons→ not "with eyes in a fine phrensy rolling"-nor with hair disheveled by the tossings of inspiration, but of calm countenances and sedate demeanor, not very distinguishable from those we love to look on by "parlor twilight" in any happy household we are in the habit of dropping in upon of an evening a familiar guest. SECTION XXII. HENRY KIRKE WHITE. No one can read the memoir of this young bard, from the elegant pen of Southey the poet, without deep sensibility. We shall furnish a few sketches to allure the young student to an imitation of the literary industry of White, though it will be necessary to add a serious caution about that neglect of physical culture, and of health, which brought him to a premature grave at the age of twenty-one. When very young, his love of reading was decidedly manifested. At eleven years of age, he one day, at the best school in Nottingham, wrote a separate composition for every boy in his class, which consisted of about swelve or fourteen. The master said he had never known them write so well upon any subject before, and could not refrain from expressing his astonishment at the excellence of Henry's. At the age of thirteen, he wrote some verses, of which the following are a part: ON BEING CONFINED TO SCHOOL ONE PLEASANT MORNING EN SPRING. In a few years he entered on the study of law, and pursued it with an application so unremitting that he scarce allowed himself time to eat his meals, or to refresh his body by sleep. Even in his walks his mind was intensely occupied. Thus his health suffered and soon gave way. His biography by Dr. Southey, his letters, and much of his poetry, are in a high degree fascinating. We have not room for long extracts from his poems, but will furnish one of the most affecting character, probably among the last that he ever penned-found in the close of his CHRISTIAD, an unfinished poem. Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme With self-rewarding toil; thus far have sung Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem On the dark cypress! and the strings which rung Or when the breeze comes by, moan, and are heard no more And must the harp of Judah sleep again? Thou who dost listen when the humble pray, I am a youthful trav'ler in the way, And this slight boon would consecrate to thee, Ere I with death shake hands and smile that I am free." Lord Byron never employed his pen more innocently or judiciously than in preparing the following lines and notes, in memory of this talented and lamented youth. LINES ON HENRY KIRKE WHITE-BY BYRON. (a) Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge in October, 1806, in consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that would have matured a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which death itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret that so short a period was allotted to talents which would have dignified even the sacred functions he was destined to assume. SECTION XXIII. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, as a poet, has been the subject of unqualified admiration by some, and of severe animadversion by others. To those who desire to examine the merits of this disputed matter, the author would recommend |