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Sees whatever fair and splendid
Lay betwixt his home and hers;
Parks with oak and chestnut shady,
Parks and order'd gardens great,
Ancient homes of lord and lady,
Built for pleasure and for state.
All he shows her makes him dearer:
Evermore she seems to gaze
On that cottage growing nearer,

Where they twain will spend their days.
Oh! but she will love him truly!
He shall have a cheerful home;
She will order all things duly,
When beneath his roof they come.
Thus her heart rejoices greatly,
Till a gateway she discerns
With armorial bearings stately,
And beneath the gate she turns;
Sees a mansion more majestic
Than all those she saw before:
Many a gallant gay domestic

Bows before him at the door.
And they speak in gentle murmur,
When they answer to his call,
While he treads with footsteps firmer,
Leading on from hall to hall.
And, while now she wonders blindly,
Nor the meaning can divine,
Proudly turns he round, and kindly-
"All of this is mine and thine!"
Here he lives in state and bounty,
Lord of Burleigh, fair and free;

Not a lord in all the county

Is so great a lord as he.

All at once the color flushes

Her sweet face from brow to chin: As it were with shame she blushes, And her spirit changed within. Then her countenance all over

Pale again as death did prove; But he clasp'd her like a lover,

And he cheer'd her soul with love. So she strove against her weakness, Though at times her spirits sank; Shaped her heart, with woman's meekness, To all duties of her rank:

And a gentle consort made he,

And her gentle mind was such,

That she grew a noble lady,

And the people loved her much.

But a trouble weigh'd upon her,

And perplex'd her, night and morn,

With the burden of an honor

Unto which she was not born. Faint she grew, and ever fainter,

As she murmur'd-"Oh! that he

Were once more that landscape-painter,
Which did win my heart from me!"
So she droop'd and droop'd before him,
Fading slowly from his side:

Three fair children first she bore him,
Then, before her time, she died.
Weeping, weeping late and early,
Walking up and pacing down,
Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh,
Burleigh-house by Stamford-town.
And he came to look upon her,

And he look'd at her, and said-
"Bring the dress, and put it on her,
That she wore when she was wed."
Then her people, softly treading,
Bore to earth her body, drest
In the dress that she was wed in,
That her spirit might have rest!

THE BUGLE SONG.

The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory:
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying.
Blow, bugle, answer echoes, dying, dying, dying.

Oh, hark! oh, hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
Oh! sweet and far, from cliff and scar
The horns of Elf-land faintly blowing.
Blow! let us hear the purple glens replying,
Blow, bugle, answer echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die on yon rich sky,

They faint on hill, on field, on river;

Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow for ever and for ever.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

CIRCUMSTANCE.1

Two children in two neighbor villages

Playing mad pranks along the heathy leas;

Two strangers meeting at a festival;

Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall;

Two lives bound fast in one with golden ease;

Two graves grass-green beside a gray church-tower,
Wash'd with still rains and daisy-blossomed;
Two children in one hamlet born and bred;

So runs the round of life from hour to hour.

These few lines set before us very pleasantly two villagers-playing, parted, meeting, loving, wedding, dying, and leaving behind them two orphan children.

It is difficult to make selections from the "IN MEMORIAM," that will fairly represent it; for one must needs read it as a whole, to get fully into its spirit. The following, however, are some of the beautiful stanzas that can be read with pleasure by themselves. In speaking of his four years' companionship in college with his departed friend, he thus writes:

XXII.

The path by which we twain did go,

Which led by tracts that pleased us well,
Through four sweet years arose and fell,
From flower to flower, from snow to snow:
And we with singing cheer'd the way,
And, crown'd with all the season lent,
From April on to April went,

And glad at heart from May to May:
But where the path we walk'd began
To slant the fifth autumnal slope,
As we descended, following Hope,
There sat the Shadow fear'd of man;
Who broke our fair companionship,

And spread his mantle dark and cold;
And wrapp'd thee formless in the fold,
And dull'd the murmur on thy lip;
And bore thee where I could not see

Nor follow, though I walk in haste;

And think that, somewhere in the waste,

The Shadow sits and waits for me.

The allusion to the time when the "happy sister" was to be their bond of union is very beautiful :—

LXXXII.

When I contemplate, all alone,

The life that had been thine below,
And fix my thoughts on all the glow
To which thy crescent would have grown;
I see thee sitting crown'd with good,
A central warmth diffusing bliss
In glance and smile, and clasp and kiss,
On all the branches of thy blood;
Thy blood, my friend, and partly mine;
For now the day was drawing on,
When thou shouldst link thy life with one
Of mine own house, and boys of thine
Had babbled "Uncle" on my knee;
But that remorseless iron hour
Made cypress of her orange-flower,
Despair of Hope, and earth of thee.
I seem to meet their least desire,

To clap their cheeks, to call them mine.
I see their unborn faces shine

Beside the never-lighted fire.

I see myself an honor'd guest,
Thy partner in the flowery walk
Of letters, genial table-talk,
Or deep dispute, and graceful jest:
While now thy prosperous labor fills
The lips of men with honest praise,
And sun by sun the happy days
Descend below the golden hills

With promise of a morn as fair;

And all the train of bounteous hours
Conduct, by paths of growing powers,
To reverence and the silver hair;

Till slowly worn her earthly robe,

Her lavish mission richly wrought,
Leaving great legacies of thought,
Thy spirit should fail from off the globe;
What time mine own might also flee,

As link'd with thine in love and fate,
And, hovering o'er the dolorous strait
To the other shore, involved in thee,
Arrive at last the blessed goal,

And he that died in Holy Land
Would reach us out the shining hand,
And take us as a single soul.

What reed was that on which I leant?

Ah! backward fancy! wherefore wake
The old bitterness again, and break

The low beginnings of content?

The spiritual qualifications for any feeling of communion with the dead are thus finely set forth :

XCII.

How pure at heart and sound in head,

With what divine affections bold,

Should be the man whose thought would hold

An hour's communion with the dead.

In vain shalt thou, or any, call

The spirits from their golden day,
Except, like them, thou too canst say

My spirit is at peace with all.

They haunt the silence of the breast,
Imaginations calm and fair,
The memory like a cloudless air,
The conscience as a sea at rest:

But when the heart is full of din,
And doubt beside the portal waits,
They can but listen at the gates
And hear the household jar within.

MRS. NORTON.

CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH SHERIDAN is the granddaughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, and was born about the year 1808. She early showed that sha inherited the genius of her celebrated ancestor, and in her seventeenth year composed her poem "The Sorrows of Rosalie." "Bereaved by death," as it has been said, "of one to whom she had given her heart, she became, in an unpropitions hour, the wife of the Hon. George Chappel Norton." The union proved a most unhappy one, and was dissolved in 1840, Mrs. Norton having been, for many years, the object of suspicion and persecution of the most mortifying and painful character. That her husband's treatment of her was most unjustifiable, no one who is acquainted with the history of this most unfortunate union for a moment doubts; but that in such cases the fault is all on one side, the world rarely, if ever, believes. It is certainly much in Mrs. Norton's favor that she has not forfeited the confidence of her most intimate friends, and that in the darkest hour of her persecution she enjoyed the esteem of some of the first personages in England.

Mrs. Norton's next work was a poem founded on the ancient legend of the "Wandering Jew," which she termed "The Undying One." A third volume appeared from her pen in 1840, entitled "The Dream, and other Poems." These have given her a very high rank among the female poets of England. The "Quarterly Review" says that "she is the Byron of our modern poetesses. She has very much of that intense personal passion by which Byron's poetry is distinguished from the larger grasp and deeper communion with man and nature of Wordsworth. She has also Byron's beautiful intervals of tenderness, his strong practical thought, and his forceful expression. It is not an artificial imitation, but a natural parallel." For the honor of the sex, I hope the "natural parallel" cannot be carried any further. Indeed it cannot. Much of Byron's poetry is "earthly, sensual, devilish;" while the moral tone of all that Mrs. Norton has written is pure and elevated. Her poetic powers, naturally of a high order, have been greatly cherished and improved by education and culture, and by a careful study of the best models. But she can speak best for herself.

The following impassioned verses are addressed by Mrs. Norton to her to whom she has dedicated her poems :

TO THE DUCHESS OF SUTHERLAND.

Once more, my harp! once more, although I thought
Never to wake thy silent strings again;

A wandering dream thy gentle chords have wrought,
And my sad heart, which long hath dwelt in pain,
Soars like a wild bird from a cypress bough
Into the poet's heaven, and leaves dull grief below!

And unto thee-the beautiful and pure-
Whose lot is cast amid that busy world
Where only sluggish Dulness dwells secure,
And Fancy's generous wing is faintly furl'd;

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