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CAROLINE ELIZABETH NORTON. they contain stanzas which give felicitous expres
sion to genuine feeling and ennobling thought. AROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH SHERI- Lockhart, in the Quarterly, called her “the Byron
of poetesses," but, except for the connubial infelic. the second daughter of Thomas Sheridan, and the
ity which withered both their lives, and the occas. granddaughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan. Her ional expression of the emotions stirred by their mother, who was the daughter of Colonel Callen- common experience, the analogy cannot be said to dar, possessed great personal charms, and natural hold good. Each, like Wordsworth's nightingale, literary ability which found exercise in the writing was “a creature of fiery heart;' but Mrs. Norton of novels. Caroline inherited many of her mother's
was chastened and refined by the sufferings that gifts and graces, together with the more brilliant irritated and degraded Byron. Mrs. Norton's tenqualities belonging to her father's family, and was der, womanly feeling was everywhere evident in thus well equipped for both a fashionable and a lit
her life and work. Her sympathy with the poor erary career. Born in 1808, she spent some years and suffering was keen and constant. after her father's death with her mother and sisters
A. H. M. at Hampton Court Palace, and later at a small mansion in Great George Street, near Storey's Gate. When scarcely more than a child she was
BINGEN ON THE RHINE. sought in marriage by Mr. George Norton, a younger brother of Lord Grantley, and in 1827 he married her. The marriage was a most unhappy
A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers
There was lack of woman's nursing, there was one, and Mrs. Norton doubtless found some relief
dearth of woman's tears ; from her sorrows in the employment of her pen. She is said to have earned large sums by her writ
But a comrade stood beside him, while his life
blood ebbed away, ings, and for a long time to have provided the means for the family subsistence, as well as for her
And he bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he husband's extravagances. These were the days of
might say. the "Annuals" with their covers of red silk and
The dying soldier faltered, as he took that com
rade's hand, embellishments of steel engravings, and Mrs. Nor
And he said: “I never more shall see my own, ton became both a contributor and an editor in this
my native land ; connection. Like her mother, she wrote several novels: “Old Sir Douglas," "Lost and Found,”
Take a message and a token to some distant friends
of mine, and others, novels which, in some instances, ran to several editions, and to these she added four
For I was born at Bingen--at Bingen on the Rhine! volumes of verse : “The Sorrow's of Rosalie" (1829); “The Undying One" (1831); “The Child “Tell my brothers and companions, when they of the Islands" (1845); “The Lady of la Garaye” crowd around (1861-2). Mrs. Norton's work was not conceived To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vinein any dilettante spirit. It shows from first to last yard ground, that steady progress which only comes to consci- That we fought the battle bravely—and, when the entious application and continuous study. Her day was done, longer works lack the sustained interest which can | Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setalone make such poems permanently popular, but ting sun.
And ’midst the dead and dying were some grown
old in wars, The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last
of many scars ; But some were young,--and suddenly beheld life's
morn decline, And one had come from Bingen-fair Bingen on
the Rhine! “Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort
her old age, And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home
a cage; For my father was a soldier, and, even as a child, My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles
fierce and wild ; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty
hoard, I let them take whate'er they would—but kept my
father's sword; And with boyish love I hung it where the bright
light used to shine, On the cottage wall at Bingen - calm Bingen on
the Rhine! “Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with
drooping head, When the troops are marching home again, with
glad and gallant tread; But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and
steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier, too-and not afraid
to die. And, if a comrade seek her love, I ask her, in my
name, To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame; And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's
sword and mine), For the honor of old Bingen- dear Bingen on the
His voice grew faint and hoarser,- his grasp was
childish weak,His eyes put on a dying look,, he sighed and
ceased to speak; His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark
of life had fled ! The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land was
dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she
looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody
corpses strown; Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light
seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen-fair Bingen on the
THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE.
“There's another — not a sister,– in the happy
days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that
sparkled in her eye: Too innocent for coquetry! too fond for idle
scorning ;Oh friend ! I fear the lightest heart makes some
times heaviest mourning ! Tell her, the last night of my life (for, ere this moon
be risen, My body will be out of pain my soul be out of
prison), I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow
sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen-fair Bingen on
WORD was brought to the Danish king,
(Hurry!) That the love of his heart lay suffering, And pined for the comfort his voice would bring;
(Oh! ride as though you were flying!)
And his Rose of the Isles is dying!
(Oh! ride as though you were flying!)
For his Rose of the Isles lay dying!
If echo, rising from her magic throne,
Repeated with her melody of voice Each timid sigh-each whisper'd word and tone,
Which made the hearer's listening heart rejoice; If Nature could, uncheck’d, repeat aloud All she hath heard and seen-must hear and
seeWhere would the whispering, vowing, sighing
crowd Of lovers and their blushing partners be?
We have been sad together,
We have wept with bitter tears,
The hopes of early years.
Would bid thee clear thy brow;
Oh! what shall part us now?
TO MY BOOKS.
A MOTHER'S LOVE.
The mother looketh from her latticed pane
Her children's voices echoing sweet and clear: With merry leap and bound her side they gain,
Offering their wild field-flow'rets : all are dear,
Yet still she listens with an absent ear: For, while the strong and lovely round her press,
A halt, uneven step sounds drawing near : And all she leaves, that crippled child to bless, Folding him to her heart, with cherishing caress.
Silent companions of the lonely hour,
Friends, who can never alter or forsake, Who for inconstant roving have no power
And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take, Let me return to you; this turmoil ending
Which worldly cares have in my spirit wrought, And, o'er your old familiar pages bending,
Refresh my mind with many a tranquil thought, Till, haply meeting there, from time to time,
Fancies, the audible echo of my own, 'Twill be like hearing in a foreign clime
My native language spoke in friendly tone,
BE FRANK WITH ME.
Yea, where the soul denies illumined grace,
(The last, the worst, fatallest defect); She, gazing earnest in that idiot face,
Thinks she perceives a dawn of intellect :
And, year by year, continues to expect What time shall never bring ere life be flown :
Still loving, hoping, -patient, though dejected, Watching those eyes that answer not her own, Near him, and yet how far! with him, but still alone.
Want of attraction this love cannot mar :
Years of rebellion cannot blot it out : The prodigal, returning from afar,
Still finds a welcome, giv'n with song and shout!
The father's hand without reproach or doubt, Clasps his,—who caused them all such bitter fears :
The mother's arms encircle him about : That long, dark course of alienated years, Marked only by a burst of reconciling tears !
Be frank with me, and I accept my lot ;
But deal not with me as a grieving child, Who for the loss of that which he hath not
Is by a show of kindness thus beguiled. Raise not for me, from its enshrouded tomb,
The ghostly likeness of a hope deceased ; Nor think to cheat the darkness of my doom
By wavering doubts how far thou art released, This dressing Pity in the garb of Love,
This effort of the heart to seem the same, These sighs and lingerings, (which nothing prove
But that thou leav'st me with a kind of shame,) — Remind me more, by their most vain deceit, Of the dear loss of all which thou dost counterfeit.
WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS TOGETHER.
We have been friends together,
In sunshine and in shade ; Since first beneath the chestnut trees
In infancy we play'd.
A cloud is on thy brow;
Shall a light word part us now?
Beneath the influence of this fond spell, Happy, contented, bless'd, we seem to dwell ; Sweet faces shine with love's own tender ray, Which frown, or coldly turn from us, by day; The lonely orphan hears a parent's voice; Sad, childless mothers once again rejoice; The or deserted seems a happy bride ; And the long parted wander side by side.
- The Dream.