The following, which the author has named "Graves of a Household," has rather less of external scenery, but serves, like the others, to show how well the graphic and pathetic may be made to set off each other:

"They grew in beauty, side by side,
They fill'd one home with glee;
Their graves are sever'd, far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea!

560

MRS. HEMANS

HER LADY OF THE CASTLE.

66

They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheer'd with song the hearth,
Alas! for Love, if thou wert all,

And nought beyond, oh earth!"

We have taken these pieces chiefly on account of their shortness: But it would not be fair to Mrs. Hemans not to present our readers with one longer specimen - and to give a portion of her graceful narrative along with her pathetic descriptions. This story, of "The Lady of the Castle," is told, we think, with great force and

sweetness:

"Thou seest her pictur'd with her shining hair,
(Fam'd were those tresses in Provençal song)
Half braided, half o'er cheek and bosom fair
Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along
Her gorgeous vest. A child's right hand is roving
'Midst the rich curls, and, oh! how meekly loving
Its earnest looks are lifted to the face,
Which bends to meet its lip in laughing grace!
Yet that bright lady's eye methinks hath less
Of deep, and still, and pensive tenderness,
Than might beseem a mother's: On her brow
Something too much there sits of native scorn,
And her smile kindles with a conscious glow.

These may be dreams! But how shall Woman tell
Of woman's shame, and not with tears?— She fell!
That mother left that child! - went hurrying by
Its cradle haply not without a sigh;
Haply one moment o'er its rest serene

She hung-But no! it could not thus have been,
For she went on! - forsook her home, her hearth,
All
pure affection, all sweet household mirth,

To live a gaudy and dishonour'd thing,

Sharing in guilt the splendours of a king."

66

Her lord, in very weariness of life,

Girt on his sword for scenes of distant strife;

He reck'd no more of Glory :- Grief and shame
Crush'd out his fiery nature, and his name
Died silently. A shadow o'er his halls

Crept year by year; the minstrel pass'd their walls;
The warder's horn hung mute: - Meantime the child,
On whose first flow'ring thoughts no parent smil'd,
A gentle girl, and yet deep-hearted, grew
Into sad youth; for well, too well, she knew
Her mother's tale! Its memory made the sky
Seem all too joyous for her shrinking eye;

LADY OF THE CASTLE.

Check'd on her lip the flow of song, which fain
Would there have linger'd; flush'd her cheek to pain,
If met by sudden glance; and gave a tone

Of sorrow, as for something lovely gone,

Even to the spring's glad voice. Her own was low
And plaintive!-Oh! there lie such depths of woe
In a young blighted spirit! Manhood rears
A haughty brow; and Age has done with tears;
But Youth bows down to mis'ry, in amaze
At the dark cloud o'ermantling its fresh days,-
And thus it was with her. A mournful sight
In one so fair-for she indeed was fair-
Not with her mother's dazzling eyes of light.

Hers were more shadowy, full of thought and pray'r;
And with long lashes o'er a white-rose cheek,
Drooping in gloom, yet tender still and meek.

"One sunny morn,

With alms before her castle gate she stood,
'Midst peasant-groups; when, breathless and o'erworn,
And shrouded in long robes of widowhood,

A stranger through them broke:-The orphan maid
With her sweet voice, and proffer'd hand of aid,
Turn'd to give welcome: But a wild sad look
Met hers; a gaze that all her spirit shook;

And that pale woman, suddenly subdued
By some strong passion in its gushing mood,
Knelt at her feet, and bath'd them with such tears
As rain the hoarded agonies of years

From the heart's urn; and with her white lips press'd
The ground they trode; then, burying in her vest
Her brow's deep flush, sobb'd out-Oh! undefil'd!
I am thy Mother- -spurn me not, my child!'

"Isaure had pray'd for that lost mother; wept
O'er her stain'd memory, while the happy slept
In the hush'd midnight; stood with mournful gaze
Before yon picture's smile of other days,
But never breath'd in human ear the name
Which weigh'd her being to the earth with shame.
What marvel if the anguish, the surprise,
The dark remembrances, the alter'd guise,
Awhile o'erpower'd her?—from the weeper's touch
She shrank!-'Twas but a moment-yet too much
For that all-humbled one; its mortal stroke}
Came down like lightning, and her full heart broke
At once in silence. Heavily and prone

She sank, while, o'er her castle's threshold-stone,
Those long fair tresses-they still brightly wore
Their early pride, though bound with pearls no more...
Bursting their fillet, in sad beauty roll'd,

And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold.

561

562

66

MRS. HEMANS JOAN OF ARC.

Her child bent o'er her- call'd her · 'Twas too late-
Dead lay the wanderer at her own proud gate!

The joy of courts, the star of knight and bard, -
How didst thou fall, O bright-hair'd Ermengarde!"

The following sketch of "Joan of Arc in Rheims," is in a loftier and more ambitious vein; but sustained with equal grace, and as touching in its solemn tenderness. We can afford to extract but a part of it:

"Within, the light,

Through the rich gloom of pictur'd windows flowing,
Tinged with soft awfulness a stately sight,

The chivalry of France, their proud heads bowing
In martial vassalage!— while 'midst the ring,
And shadow'd by ancestral tombs, a king
Received his birthright's crown. For this, the hymn
Swell'd out like rushing waters, and the day
With the sweet censer's misty breath grew dim,
As through long aisles it floated, o'er th' array
Of arms and sweeping stoles. But who, alone
And unapproach'd, beside the altar-stone,

With the white banner, forth like sunshine streaming,
And the gold helm, through crowds of fragrance gleaming,
Silent and radiant stood?—The helm was rais'd,
And the fair face reveal'd, that upward gaz'd,

Intensely worshipping;-a still, clear face,
Youthful, but brightly solemn !- Woman's cheek
And brow were there, in deep devotion meek,
Yet glorified with inspiration's trace!

"A triumphant strain,

A proud rich stream of warlike melodies,

Gush'd through the portals of the antique fane,
And forth she came.".

"The shouts that fill'd

The hollow heaven tempestuously, were still'd,
One moment; and in that brief pause, the tone,
As of a breeze that o'er her home had blown,
Sank on the bright maid's heart!— Joanne !'

Who spoke?

Like those whose childhood with her childhood grew
Under one roof? - Joanne!'- that murmur broke
With sounds of weeping forth! — She turn'd - she knew
Beside her, mark'd from all the thousands there,

-

In the calm beauty of his silver hair,
The stately shepherd! And the youth, whose joy
From his dark eye flash'd proudly; and the boy,
The youngest-born that ever lov'd her best!
Father! and ye my brothers!'- On the breast
Of that grey sire she sank and swiftly back,
Even in an instant, to their native track

ARABELLA STUART.

Her free thoughts flow'd. She saw the pomp no more!
The plumes, the banners! To her cabin door,
And to the Fairy's Fountain in the glade,
Where her young sisters by her side had play'd,
And to her hamlet's chapel, where it rose
Hallowing the forest into deep repose,

Her spirit turn'd. — The very wood-note, sung
In early spring-time by the bird, which dwelt
Where o'er her father's roof the beech-leaves hung,
Was in her heart; a music heard and felt,
She unbound

Winning her back to nature!

The helm of many battles from her head,
And, with her bright locks bow'd to sweep the ground,

Lifting her voice up, wept for joy, and said,—

'Bless me, my father, bless me! and with thee,
To the still cabin and the beechen-tree,

Let me return!'"

563

There are several strains of a more passionate character; especially in the two poetical epistles from Lady Arabella Stuart and Properzia Rossi. We shall venture to give a few lines from the former. The Lady Arabella was of royal descent; and having excited the fears of our pusillanimous James by a secret union with the Lord Seymour, was detained in a cruel captivity, by that heartless monarch, till the close of her life- - during which she is supposed to have indited this letter to her lover from her prison house:

“My friend, my friend! where art thou? Day by day,
Gliding, like some dark mournful stream, away,
My silent youth flows from me! Spring, the while,
Comes, and rains beauty on the kindling boughs

Round hall and hamlet; Summer, with her smile,

Fills the green forests; - young hearts breathe their vows;
Brothers, long parted, meet; fair children rise

Round the glad board: Hope laughs from loving eyes. "Ye are from dingle and fresh glade, ye flowers!

By some kind hand to cheer my dungeon sent;
O'er you the oak shed down the summer showers,
And the lark's nest was where your bright cups bent,
Quivering to breeze and rain-drop, like the sheen
Of twilight stars. On you Heaven's eye hath been,
Through the leaves pouring its dark sultry blue
Into your glowing hearts; the bee to you

Hath murmur'd, and the rill.

grows

My soul faint
With passionate yearning, as its quick dreams paint
Your haunts by dell and stream, the green, the free,

The full of all sweet sound, - the shut from me!