strain, Few are the hearts whence one same touch His hope was crushed, his after-fate untold in martial alting the poetry of Mrs. Hemans. From the His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain. sentimental character of her muse, results the With how true a sympathy does she trace the prisameness of which some readers complain in peson musings of Arabella Stuart, portray the strife rusing her works. This apparent monotony only of the heart in the Greek bride, and the fidelity of strikes us when we attempt to read several poems woman in the wife soothing her husband's dying consecutively. But such is not the manner in agonies on the wheel! What a pathetic charm which we should treat a poetess who so exclusivebreathes in the pleadings of the Adopted Child, and ly addresses our feelings. Like Petrarch's sonthe Meeting of Tasso and his Sister. How well nets, her productions delight most when separately enjoyed. Her careful study of poetry as an art, she understood the hopelessness of ideal love! and her truly conscientious care in choosing her O ask not, hope thou not too much Of sympathy belowlanguage and forming her verse, could not, even if it were desirable, prevent the formation of a certain style. It is obvious, also, that her efforts are unequal. The gems, however, are more profusely scattered, than through the same amount of writing by almost any modern poet. The department of her muse was a high and sacred one. The path she pursued was one especially heroic, inasmuch as her efforts imply the exertion of great enthusiasm. Such lyrics as we admire in her pages are "fresh from the fount of feeling." They have stirred the blood of thousands. They have kindled innumerable hearts on both sides of the sea. They have strown imperishable flowers around the homes and the graves of two nations. They lift the thoughts, like an organ's peal, to a better land," and quicken the purest sympathies of the soul into a truer life and more poetic beauty. Few and by still conflicting powers Such ties would make this world of ours Too fair for aught so fleet. Nor is it alone in mere sensibility that the poetess excels. The loftiness and the dignity of her sex has few nobler interpreters. What can be finer in its kind than the Swiss wife's appeal to her husband's patriotism? Her poems abound in the worthiest appeals to woman's faith: Her lot is on you-silent tears to weep, And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, To pour on broken reeds-a wasted shower! To depict the parting grief of the Hebrew mother," the repentant tears of Cœur de Lion at his father's bier, the home-associations of the Eastern stranger The taste of Mrs. Hemans was singularly ele at the sight of a palm-tree-these, and such as gant. She delighted in the gorgeous and imposing. these, were congenial themes to Mrs. Hemans. There is a remarkable fondness for splendid com Joyous as is her welcome to Spring, thoughts of bination, warlike pomp and knightly pageantry be the departed solemnize its beauty. She invokes trayed in her writings. Her fancy seems bathed the Ocean not for its gems and buried gold, but for in a Southern atmosphere. We trace her Ithan the true and brave that sleep in its bosom. The descent in the very flow and imagery of her verse, bleak arrival of the New-England Pilgrims, and There is far less of Saxon boldness of design, and the evening devotion of the Italian peasant-girl, simplicity of outline, than of the rich coloring are equally consecrated by her muse. Where and luxuriant grouping of a warmer clime. Aka there is profound love, exalted patriotism, or a to this trait was her passion for Art. She used faith touching all things with hues of Heaven," to say that Music was part of her life. In fact, there she rejoiced to expatiate. Fair as Elysium the mind of the poetess was essentially romante. appeared to her fancy, she celebrates its splendor Her muse was not so easily awakened by the sight only to reproach its rejection of the lowly and the of a beautiful object, as by the records of noble ad loved : For the most loved are they, Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion voice Around their steps! till silently they die, 66 venture. Her interest was chiefly excited by the brave and touching in human experience. Nature attracted her rather from its associations with God and humanity, than on account of its abstract and absolute qualities. This forms the great distin tion between her poetry and that of Wordsworth In the midst of the fine scenery of Wales, her fant faculties unfolded. There began her acqu ance with life and books. We are told of her great facility in acquiring languages, her relish e Shakspeare at the age of six, and her extraordinary It was the opinion of Dr. Spurzheim, an accu- memory. It is not difficult to understand how ber rate and benevolent observer of life, that suffering ardent feelings and rich imagination develope was essential to the rich development of female with peculiar individuality under such circumstarcharacter. It is interesting to trace the influence ces. Knightly legends, tales of martial enterof disappointment and trial in deepening and ex- prize-the poetry of courage and devotion, fase But not with thee might aught save glory dwell- nated her from the first. But when her deeper secret springs of man's heart, and delineating the various effects of their machinery upon the character, are so marked, so preeminent, that we find here the author almost sole occupant of this guest-chamber in the Temple; 46 -juvat ire jugis quà nulla priorum Castaliam molli devertitur orbita clivo." We trembled at first, with light flutterings, lest Ianthe, Irene, Isabel, and the sonnets on names might have a repeated idea, a corresponding trait, a point of union somewhere, which should render them parallel; but, though all were lovely, none were alike. Out of them might grow as true a woman as the world ever saw. To imagine such an one, is worth living for. "Earth's noblest thing,-a woman perfected," might here find rules of conduct, which evidently arise from deep wisdom, and pure thought. With all this we remark, from its surpassingly beautiful dedication to the plaintive pleadings of "L'Euvoy," a spirit of tenderness towards woman, with which man may feel proud to be stimulated in these case-hardening days. Her's is a spirit deep and crystal-clear; * Some of these have already appeared in our former numpoets, she saw but little of the world. The great-bers, and we are happy to add further proofs to the position er part of her life was passed in retirement. Her we have taken. knowledge of distant lands was derived from books. Hence she makes little pretension to the poetry of observation. Sketches copied directly from the visible universe, are barely encountered in her works. For such portraiture her mind was not remarkably adapted. There was another process far more congenial to her-the personation of Exceeding pleasant to mine eyes is she: feeling. She loved to sing of inciting events, to Like a lone star through riven storm-clouds seen By sailors, tempest-tost upon the sea, contemplate her race in an heroic attitude, to ex- Telling of rest and peaceful heavens nigh, plore the depths of the soul, and, amid the shadows Unto my soul her star-like soul hath been, Her sight as full of hope and calm to me ;of despair and the tumult of passion, point out For she unto herself hath builded high some element of love or faith unquenched by the A home serene, wherein to lay her head, Earth's noblest thing,-a Woman perfected. storm. Her strength lay in earnestness of soul. We find here also precepts of wisdom, and a trust in Her best verses glow with emotion. When once moral strength to guide our lives, a delightful freedom from truly interested in a subject, she cast over it such all repining, shed like dew upon sunburnt flowers, over the an air of feeling that our sympathies are won at hearts of world-stricken men. Our " weary packs" grow once. We cannot but catch the same vivid im-light, and we go with the poet, (for he has wondrous power pression; and if we draw from her pages no great in leading us wheresoever he listeth, and that too without auber of definite images, we cannot but imbibe apparent art,) beggars through the world, joyously culling what is more valuable-the warmth and the life of pure, lofty and earnest sentiment. LOWELL'S POEMS.* We have here a volume of Poems, of a loftier rank throughout, performing more truly the Poet's duty, whereby he speaks to men's conditions, showing fresher sympathies and more tender sensibilities, than any we have witnessed ese many long days. In fact we find in it, beauties, and ssociations peculiar to the writer himself; beauties, which ith all our Poets we have never seen before, which as it as fallen to the lot of none other to afford us, and as they ad not their counterparts, except of another nature, bring Their author to eminence by a road hitherto almost untraeled. We have been told that a country like ours, with its mighty works of nature, could not but inspire some of us, nd give birth to a nation of Poets. The path, thus point=d out, has been worn smooth, and it is a relief when we =an say, “ character-writers" too, are among us. The nice iscrimination shown in this chaste volume, in reaching the A Year's Life. By James Russell Lowell. Boston: C. C. Little & J. Brown, 12mo. pp. 182. virtues from nature's various works. He shows the spirit of an "alchemist who would extract from dust and ashes, the essence of perpetual youth, tempt coy truth in many light and airy forms from the bottom of her well, and diacover one crumb of comfort, or one grain of good, in the commonest and least regarded matter, that passes through his crucible." For his sake we would respect the Beggar clothed with a moral sublimity. That confiding trust of has read the Book of Nature, as opened both in earth and which we have spoken and the evident skill with which he man, out of which lesson this trust may grow, show us how thorough a thinker he is, and how surely he has "held high converse with the godlike few, Who to th' enraptured beart, and ear, and eye, Teach beauty, virtue, truth, and love and melody." And even when "all things are sad" he shows why, in the following exquisite song. SONG. All things are sad : I go and ask of Memory, O, her voice is sweet and low, As the dew The half-unfolded eglantine, Yet more sad, and yet more lonely! Of her mother Memory; Clear as air her glad voice ringeth, Who danced along and sang before me, They are gone, And their silent graves are seen, But when sweet Memory faileth, Die for, ah! we know not what; Then the body saith, "There's but one true faith; All things are sad!" Thus he speaks to us, words we have felt without the power of utterance. The heart burnings, and writhings of the soul when weighed down with thoughts, which we find no vent for, no word-softenings like the tear-softenings of grief,-when we feel how "Sorrow concealed, like an oven stopped, Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is," find here a sure relief. In the beautiful simplicity of the style, we feel that all these emotions we have experienced, are clothed for us sweetly,-and brought home to our hearts, like little children welcomed from their wanderings. Let the mother read in Threnodia, the beautiful lesson her departed child has taught;-let him whose soul has been stirred by music, see its different workings in each changing verse of "Music,"-now soothed and lying with drooping eyes, now borne on with the rolling thunder,-now charmed, fearing to speak, fearing to move, "Lest I should break the spell I love,"— now merrily floating on the bright waves of song, listening to the ripples at the prow,-now feeling I have drunk of the drink of immortals, And now I may pass the bright portals I have drunk it through mine eyes Like a new life gushing through me, Sweep the heavenly harmonies! and they will wonder how true to their hearts is every line. It seems as if a watchful mother's eye Then laughs aloud and scorns her hated bands. The style of the Book, partaking of the quaintness of the purest wells of English found in our old Poets, so lamen tably disregarded at the present day, seems finely fitted to the tenor of the author's thoughts. It does our soul good to see the noble old Saxon tongue, for which we have so vast a reverence, and which can boast of so much beauty, whose antiquity should insure it respect, chosen, when so many of us are losing this affection. We are glad to see Spenser and his companions, Shakspeare, Webster, and the "golden-mouthed" Taylor, called upon for draughts from the sweet waters of their never-failing fountains These men we love, and he who goes to them for his standard, opens an avenue to our heart,-or rather finds one already open and paved. Beside this delightful attire, mellow light is shed over the whole book, breaking out now and then into brilliant flashes. He who has done bi duty as a moral creature, must feel that he should have had these thoughts, so pure and true, himself; and the beautiful trait in the character of Ianthe, of whom he says Early and late, at her soul's gate, Sits chastity in warder wise, No thought unchallenged, small or great, Goes thence into her eyes; a is Nor may a low, unworthy thought apparently, a ruling principle with the author himself. When we think how many of the mighty multitude of writers among us, daily increasing, must necessarily sink into oblivion, although much merit may go with many thes fated, as time rolls on, we indulge a hope that this litte book will still go on its mission, aided in its work by sid further products from the same mind. That the author feels the holiness of the Poet's work, we have evidence so strong, that, in hoping thus, we do it without trembling and fear. LINES. WRITTEN IN SICKNESS. BY MRS. E. J. EAMES. Wearisome nights, and long, long, lonely days, Dim shadows, born of loneliness and pain, Round my low couch and darken'd chamber hover; Yes! parted far from the dear household hand; With none, my Soul? O where is then thy God? Father in Heaven, submissively I bow. If all that I have known of grief and sickness, a ravishing beauty. There must be expressions of countenance which the European pencil has never portrayed, as there are certain passions and social relations unknown at the West. All ought to be summed up in the head of Mahomet. What pleasure there would be in reviving him again! in painting him in the different circumstances of his life, as Jesus has been painted. I will go into Syriainto Egypt-into the Yemen! I will study the countenances of the inhabitants, particularly those of the Arabs; and I will find there the glorious face of the husband of Aicha. Mary, the mother of the Redeemer, is in Europe the type of woman; I will create Fatma, the daughter of the Prophet. She shall be the type of the women of the East! Filled with these ideas, Eugene Gallois was at Cairo, engaged in drawing all that struck his fancy, in human forms, or monuments of art. Not far from the gate of Bab-elNasr, he had commenced drawing a very beautiful mosque He went, day after day, to the little square, accompanied by a servant bearing the different implements of his profession, in order to finish the undertaking, which required many sittings, on account of the details of architecture and ornament. He had taken his seat one afternoon, and was alone, absorbed in his task, (for his servant had gone to pray in the mosque) when, from a neighboring dwelling, a small child ran towards him, carrying in his delicate hand a bouquet of flowers. Eugene raised his head, and found the child so pretty, that he was about to lay down his pencil, to take him upon his knees and caress him; but the little creature fled as swiftly as though he possessed the wings of the classical Cupid, leaving him the bouquet, and entered the house from which he had come. Eugene gazed for a long time, with eyes fixed on the door of the But purify my heart-perfect my strength in weakness-dwelling. At length, perceiving his servant resuming his Teen not in vain this aching heart and brow! O' strengthen Thou! and guide Thought's drooping pinion Above this world's dominion! Eames's Place, April, 1841. THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.* In the East the men care little for flowers of rhetoric; ct, on the other hand, the women are well versed in the thetoric of flowers. A bouquet is a discourse with its exdium and its peroration; each flower is a Ciceronian pemod. The most delicate shades of sentiment, the most etle ideas of the heart's metaphysics, can all be expressd in the language of flowers. In the midst of a parterre, be women of the East find a library. In a bouquet, they an tell all which has been written in the old romances of Livalry, or the modern romances of our time. The form, erfume, and color of flowers, constitute the grammatical rity of this language of love. The endless combination of these three elements, forms a syntax which the women eadily understand; but the men are not so quick in comrehending the ingenuity of this colored language, or the old figures of this perfumed rhetoric. Eugene Gallois had gone to Egypt with a great love for he arts. He had studied painting and sculpture in France, Spain, and Italy; but looking upon the catholic art as merely a dead body which they vainly attempted to galazize, and on that which was springing up as a feeble imiion of the past, he had come to seek in the East a new spiration. The moral East, said he to himself, has been cher painted nor sculptured; denied to art by the Proact, the human form must, there, have acquired in nature • Translated from the French for the Southern Literary Messenger, by Esther Wetherald, of Baltimore, Md. VOL. VII-49 slippers at the entrance of the mosque, he made a sign for him to approach. "What means this bouquet," said he, "which a beautiful child has just brought to me?" "That seems to thee a bouquet," replied the servant, "but it is a letter." "And who can write to me thus with flowers ?" "It is probably a woman, for women are very skilful in this kind of writing." Then, inspecting the bouquet, the servant added-"Master! this may tell thee very agreeable things." Eugene felt intensely anxious to read the bouquet, and cursed the universities of Europe for not having dreamed, in the midst of their scholastic trash, of establishing a course of rhetoric of flowers. "They made us learn," said he to himself, at great pains, dying and dead languages, whilst they treated the unchangeable language of nature with neglect. Oh that I could only understand the mysterious alphabet of this embalmed language! or even find an interpreter to translate this bouquet!" His ignorance, and his embarrassment were noticed by his servant, who said to him-"Master, I see thou understandest better the writing of the pen, than that of flowers. As to myself, I can read neither one nor the other. But there is an old woman in Cairo, who thoroughly understands this art, and will tell thee all that is written in this bouquet." "Let us seek her at once," replied Eugene, as he closed his box of crayons. They were soon at the dwelling of the old woman, a confidential translator of the language of flowers. Eugene had hidden the bouquet in his bosom, as a lover conceals the letter of his mistress. "I rely upon your discretion," said he to her, presenting the bouquet. "What canst thou fear?" asked she, " these letters are never signed; for there is no signature in the language of flowers." strain, His hope was crushed, his after-fate untold in martial alting the poetry of Mrs. Hemans. From the His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain. sentimental character of her muse, results the With how true a sympathy does she trace the prisameness of which some readers complain in peson musings of Arabella Stuart, portray the strife rusing her works. This apparent monotony only of the heart in the Greek bride, and the fidelity of strikes us when we attempt to read several poems woman in the wife soothing her husband's dying consecutively. But such is not the manner in agonies on the wheel! What a pathetic charm breathes in the pleadings of the Adopted Child, and the Meeting of Tasso and his Sister. How well she understood the hopelessness of ideal love! O ask not, hope thou not too much Of sympathy below Few are the hearts whence one same touch Few and by still conflicting powers Such ties would make this world of ours Nor is it alone in mere sensibility that the poetess excels. The loftiness and the dignity of her sex has few nobler interpreters. What can be finer in its kind than the Swiss wife's appeal to her husband's patriotism? Her poems abound in the worthiest appeals to woman's faith: Her lot is on you-silent tears to weep, And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, To pour on broken reeds-a wasted shower! which we should treat a poetess who so exclusively addresses our feelings. Like Petrarch's son nets, her productions delight most when separately enjoyed. Her careful study of poetry as an art, and her truly conscientious care in choosing her language and forming her verse, could not, even if it were desirable, prevent the formation of a certain style. It is obvious, also, that her efforts are unequal. The gems, however, are more profusely scattered, than through the same amount of writing by almost any modern poet. The department of her muse was a high and sacred one. The path she pursued was one especially heroic, inasmuch as her efforts imply the exertion of great enthusiasm. Such lyrics as we admire in her pages are fresh from the fount of feeling." They have stirred the blood of thousands. They have kindled innumerable hearts on both sides of the sea. They have strown imperishable flowers around the homes and the graves of two nations. They lift the thoughts, like an organ's peal, to a 66 To depict the parting grief of the Hebrew mother," better land," and quicken the purest sympathies the repentant tears of Cœur de Lion at his father's of the soul into a truer life and more poetic beauty. bier, the home-associations of the Eastern stranger The taste of Mrs. Hemans was singularly eleat the sight of a palm-tree-these, and such as gant. She delighted in the gorgeous and imposing. these, were congenial themes to Mrs. Hemans. There is a remarkable fondness for splendid comJoyous as is her welcome to Spring, thoughts of bination, warlike pomp and knightly pageantry bethe departed solemnize its beauty. She invokes trayed in her writings. Her fancy seems bathed the Ocean not for its gems and buried gold, but for in a Southern atmosphere. We trace her Italian the true and brave that sleep in its bosom. The descent in the very flow and imagery of her verse. bleak arrival of the New-England Pilgrims, and There is far less of Saxon boldness of design, and the evening devotion of the Italian peasant-girl, simplicity of outline, than of the rich coloring are equally consecrated by her muse. Where and luxuriant grouping of a warmer clime. Akin there is profound love, exalted patriotism, or a to this trait was her passion for Art. She used faith touching all things with hues of Heaven," to say that Music was part of her life. In fact, there she rejoiced to expatiate. Fair as Elysium appeared to her fancy, she celebrates its splendor only to reproach its rejection of the lowly and the loved : For the most loved are they, Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion voice the mind of the poetess was essentially romantic. Her muse was not so easily awakened by the sight of a beautiful object, as by the records of noble adventure. Her interest was chiefly excited by the brave and touching in human experience. Nature attracted her rather from its associations with God and humanity, than on account of its abstract and absolute qualities. This forms the great distinetion between her poetry and that of Wordsworth. In the midst of the fine scenery of Wales, her infant faculties unfolded. There began her acquaintance with life and books. We are told of her great facility in acquiring languages, her relish of Shakspeare at the age of six, and her extraordinary It was the opinion of Dr. Spurzheim, an accu- memory. It is not difficult to understand how her rate and benevolent observer of life, that suffering ardent feelings and rich imagination developed was essential to the rich development of female with peculiar individuality under such circumstancharacter. It is interesting to trace the influence ces. Knightly legends, tales of martial enterof disappointment and trial in deepening and ex- prize-the poetry of courage and devotion, fasci Around their steps! till silently they die, But not with thee might aught save glory dwell- |