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Felicia Dorothea Browne was the maiden name of Mrs. Hemans. She was born in Liverpool, September 25th, 1793, and died May 16th, 1835, aged forty-one. Her father, who was a merchant, having experienced some reverses in business, removed his family to Wales. In 1812 she married Captain Hemans, but the union was not a happy one: in 1818 he went to Italy, and they never met again. Mrs. Hemans remained in Wales, her time being fully occupied by her poetical labors and the education of her five boys. Ill health, however, pressed upon her, and she prematurely experienced decay of the springs of life. She died at the house of her brother, Major Browne, in Dublin. She had begun to publish her poetry as early as her fifteenth year. She wrote several long poems of merit, and "The Vespers of Palermo," a tragedy; but it is in her short lyrical pieces that she is happiest. Some of these compare not unfavorably with the best in the

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.

They grew in beauty side by side,
They filled one home with glee;
Their graves are severed far and wide
By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight-
Where are those dreamers now?

One 'mid the forests of the West,
By a dark stream is laid;
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one-
He lies where pearls lie deep;

He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are dressed
Above the noble slain;

He wrapped his colors round his breast
On a blood-red field of Spain.
And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned;
She faded 'mid Italian flowers,

The last of that bright band.

And, parted thus, they rest who played
Beneath the same green tree,
Whose voices mingled as they prayed
Around one parent-knee!

They that with smiles lit up the hall,

And cheered with song the hearth,Alas for love, if thou wert all,

And naught beyond, O Earth!

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That father, faint in death below,

His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud :-"Say, father, say If yet my task is done!"

He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, father!" once again he cried, "If I may yet be gone!" And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,

And in his waving hair,

FELICIA HEMANS.

And looked from that lone post of death In still yet brave despair;

And shouted but once more aloud, "My father, must I stay?"

While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapped the ship in splendor wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child
Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder-sound-
The boy-oh, where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around

With fragments strewed the sea!

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part-
But the noblest thing that perished there
Was that young faithful heart!

SONNET ON GRASMERE.

Wordsworth said to Mrs. Hemans: "I would not give up the mists that spiritualize our mountains for all the blue skies of Italy." She seems to have shared in his admiration of the scenery about Grasmere.

O vale and lake, within your mountain urn,
Smiling so tranquilly, and set so deep!
Oft doth your dreamy loveliness return,
Coloring the tender shadow of my sleep
With light Elysian;-for the hues that steep
Your shores in melting lustre seem to float
On golden clouds from spirit-lands remote,
Isles of the blessed;-and in our memory keep

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Their place with holiest harmonies. Fair scene,
Most loved by evening and her dewy star!
Oh! ne'er may man, with touch unhallowed, jar
The perfect music of the charm serene!
Still, still unchanged, may one sweet region wear
Smiles that subdue the soul to love and tears and
prayer!

THE MESSENGER-BIRD.

Some of the Brazilians pay veneration to a bird that sings mournfully in the night-time. They say it is a messenger which their friends and relations have sent, and that it brings them news from the other world.-See PIOART'S Ceremonies and Religious Customs.

Thou art come from the spirits' land, thou bird;
Thou art come from the spirits' land!
Through the dark pine-groves let thy voice be heard,
And tell of the shadowy band!

We know that the bowers are green and fair
In the light of that summer shore;
And we know that the friends we have lost are there,
They are there-and they weep no more!

And we know they have quenched their fever's thirst From the Fountain of Youth ere now,

For there must the stream in its freshness burst Which none may find below!

And we know that they will not be lured to earth From the land of deathless flowers,

By the feast, or the dance, or the song of mirth, Though their hearts were once with ours;

Though they sat with us by the night-fire's blaze,
And bent with us the bow,

And heard the tales of our fathers' days
Which are told to others now!

But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain,
Can those who have loved forget?
We call, and they answer not again:
Do they love-do they love us yet?

Doth the warrior think of his brother there,
And the father of his child?
And the chief of those that were wont to share
His wandering through the wild?

We call them far through the silent night,
And they speak not from cave or hill:
We know, thou bird, that their land is bright;
But say, do they love there still?

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