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THE MAGAZINE OF POETRY.

VOL. V.

CAROLINE ELIZABETH NORTON.

CA

AROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH SHERIDAN, afterwards the Hon. Mrs. Norton, was the second daughter of Thomas Sheridan, and the granddaughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan. Her mother, who was the daughter of Colonel Callendar, possessed great personal charms, and natural literary ability which found exercise in the writing of novels. Caroline inherited many of her mother's gifts and graces, together with the more brilliant qualities belonging to her father's family, and was thus well equipped for both a fashionable and a literary career. Born in 1808, she spent some years after her father's death with her mother and sisters 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 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 one, and Mrs. Norton doubtless found some relief from her sorrows in the employment of her pen. She is said to have earned large sums by her writings, and for a long time to have provided the means for the family subsistence, as well as for her husband's extravagances. These were the days of the "Annuals" with their covers of red silk and embellishments of steel engravings, and Mrs. Norton became both a contributor and an editor in this connection. Like her mother, she wrote several novels: "Old Sir Douglas,' "Lost and Found," and others, novels which, in some instances, ran to several editions, and to these she added four volumes of verse: "The Sorrows of Rosalie" (1829); "The Undying One" (1831); "The Child of the Islands” (1845); “The Lady of la Garaye" (1861-2). Mrs. Norton's work was not conceived in any dilettante spirit. It shows from first to last that steady progress which only comes to conscientious application and continuous study. Her longer works lack the sustained interest which can alone make such poems permanently popular, but

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they contain stanzas which give felicitous expression to genuine feeling and ennobling thought. Lockhart, in the Quarterly, called her "the Byron of poetesses," but, except for the connubial infelicity which withered both their lives, and the occasional expression of the emotions stirred by their common experience, the analogy cannot be said to hold good. Each, like Wordsworth's nightingale, was a creature of fiery heart;" but Mrs. Norton was chastened and refined by the sufferings that irritated and degraded Byron. Mrs. Norton's tender, womanly feeling was everywhere evident in her life and work. Her sympathy with the poor and suffering was keen and constant.

BINGEN ON THE RHINE.

A. H. M.

A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in AlgiersThere was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears;

But a comrade stood beside him, while his lifeblood ebbed away,

And he bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.

The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand,

And he said: "I never more shall see my own, my native land;

Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine,

For I was born at Bingen-at Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they crowd around

To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground,

That we fought the battle bravely-and, when the day was done,

Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting 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 Rhine!

"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 sometimes heaviest mourning!

Tell her, the last night of my life (for, ere this moon be risen,

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"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along I heard, or seemed to hear,

The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear;

And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,

That echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still;

And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed with friendly talk,

Down many a path beloved of yore, and wellremembered walk;

And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine. . . .

But we'll meet no more at Bingen-loved Bingen on the Rhine!"

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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!)
Better he loves each golden curl
On the brow of that Scandinavian girl
Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl:
And his Rose of the Isles is dying!

Thirty nobles saddled with speed;
(Hurry!)

Each one mounting a gallant steed
Which he kept for battle and days of need;

(Oh! ride as though you were flying!)
Spurs were struck in the foaming flank;
Worn-out chargers staggered and sank;
Bridles were slackened and girths were burst;
But ride as they would, the king rode first,
For his Rose of the Isles lay dying!

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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 see

Where would the whispering, vowing, sighing crowd

Of lovers and their blushing partners be?

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.

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!

We have been sad together,

We have wept with bitter tears,

O'er the grass-grown graves, where slumber'd
The hopes of early years.

The voices which are silent there
Would bid thee clear thy brow;
We have been sad together-
Oh! what shall part us now?

TO MY BOOKS.

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,
And with a sort of welcome I shall dwell
On these, my unripe musings, told so well.

BE FRANK WITH ME.

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.

But coldness dwells within thy heart,
A cloud is on thy brow;
We have been friends together-
Shall a light word part us now?

MEMORY.

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 poor deserted seems a happy bride; And the long parted wander side by side.

-The Dream.

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