Belief-in spite of many a cold dissent-
When, slandered and maligned. I stood apart

From those whose bounded power hath wrung, not crushed,

my heart.

Thon, then. when cowards lied away my name,
And scoffed to see me feebly stem the tide;
When some were kind on whom I had no claim,
And some forsook on whom my love relied,
And some, who might have battled for my sake,

Stood off in doubt to see what turn the world would take

Thou gav'st me that the poor do give the poor,
Kind words and holy wishes, and true tears;

The loved, the near of kin could do no more,

Who changed not with the gloom of varying years,

But clung the closer when I stood forlorn,

And blunted Slander's dart with their indignant scorn.

For they who credit crime, are they who feel
Their own hearts weak to unresisted sin;

Memory, not judgment, prompts the thoughts which steal
O'er minds like these, an easy faith to win;
And tales of broken truth are still believed

Most readily by those who have themselves deceived.
But like a white swan down a troubled stream,
Whose ruffling pinion hath the power to fling
Aside the turbid drops which darkly gleam,

And mar the freshness of her snowy wing-
So thou. with queenly grace and gentle pride,
Along the world's dark waves in purity dost glide:
Thy pale and pearly cheek was never made

To crimson with a faint false-hearted shame;
Thou didst not shrink-of bitter tongues afraid;
Who hunt in packs the objects of their blame;
To thee the sad denial still held true,

For from thine own good thoughts thy heart its mercy drew.

And though my faint and tributary rhymes

Add nothing to the glory of thy day,

Yet every poet hopes that after-times

Shall set some value on his votive lay;

And I would fain one gentle deed record,

Among the many such with which thy life is stored.

So when these lines, made in a mournful hour,

Are idly opened to the stranger's eye,

A dream of thee, aroused by Fancy's power,
Shall be the first to wander floating by;
And they who never saw thy lovely face

Shal puse, to conjure up a vision of its grace!

In a poem entitled 'Autumn' there is a noble simile:

I know the gray stones in the rocky glen,

Where the wild red deer gather one by one,

And listen, startled. to the tread of men

Which the betraying breeze hath backward b'own!
So-with such dark najestic eyes, where shone

Less terror than am zement-nobly came

Peruvia's Incas, when, through lands unknown,
The cruel conqueror with the blood-stained name
Swept with pursuing sword and desolating flame.

In 'The Winter's Walk,' a poem written after walking with Mr. Rogers the poet, Mrs. Norton has the following graceful and picturesque lines:

Gleamed the red sun athwart the misty haze
Which veiled the cold earth from its loving gaze,
Feeble and sad as hope in sorrow's hour-
But for thy soul it still had warmth and power;
Not to its cheerless beauty wert thou blind;
To the keen eye of thy poetic mind

Beauty still lives, though nature's flowerets die,
And wintry sunsets fade along the sky!

And nought escaped thee as we strolled along,

Nor changeful ray, nor bird's faint chirping song.
Blessed with a fancy easily inspired,

All was beheld, and nothing unadmired;
From the dim city to the clouded plain,

Not one of all God's blessings given in vain.

The affectionate attachment of Rogers to Sheridan, in his last and evil days, is delicately touched upon by the poetess:

And when at length he laid his dying hend

On the hard rest of his neglected bed.

He found (thou h few or none around him came
Whom he had toiled for in his hour of fame-
Though by his Prince unroyally forgot,
And left to struggle with his altered lot),
By sorrow weakened, by disease unnerved-
Faithful at least the friend he had not served:
For the same voice essayed that hour to cheer,
Which now sounds welcome to his grandchild's ear;
And the same hand, to aid that life's decline,
Whose gentle clasp so late was linked in mine.

Picture of Twilight.

O Twilight! Spirit that dost render birth

To dim enchantments; melting heaven with earth,
Leaving on craggy hills and runuing streams

A softness like the atmosphere of dreams;

Thy hour to all is welcome! Faint and sweet
Thy light falls round the peasant's homeward feet,

Who, slow returning from his task of toil,

Sees the low sunset gild the cultured soil,

And, though such radiance round him brightly glows,
Marks the small spark his cottage-window turow

Still as his heart forestalls his weary pace,

Fondly he dreams of each familiar face,
Recalls the treasures of his narrow life-
His rosy children and his sunburnt wife,
To whom his coming is the chief event
Of simple days in cheerful labour spent.

The rich man's chariot hath gone whirling past.
And these poor cottagers have only cast
One careless glance on all that show of pride,
Then to their tasks turned quietly aside;

But him they wait for. him they welcome home;
Fixed sentinels look forth to see him come;
The fagot sent for when the fire grew dim,
The frugal meal prepared are all for him;
For him the watching of that sturdy boy,

For him those smiles of tenderness and joy,
For him-who plods his saunt ring way along,
Whistling the fragment of some village song!

Dear art thou to the lover, thon sweet light,
Fair fleeting sister of the mournful Night!
As in impatient hope he stands apart,
Companioned only by his beating heart,
And with an eager fancy oft beholds
The vision of a white robe's fluttering folds.
Not Lost, but Gone Before.
How mournful seems, in broken dreams,
The memory of the day,
When icy Death hath sealed the breath
Of some dear form of clay;

When pale, unmoved, the face we loved,
The face we thought so fair,

And the hand lies cold, whose fervent
hold

Once charmed away despair.

Oh, what could heal the grief we feel
For hopes that come no more,
Had we ne'er heard the Scripture word,
Not lost, but gone before.”

Oh, sadly yet with vain regret

The widowed heart mast yearn; And mothers weep their babes asleep In the sunlight's vain return;

The brother's heart shall rue to part From the one through childhood known;

And the orphan's tears lament for years
A friend and father gone.

For death and life. in ceaseless strife,
Beat wild on this world's shore,
And all our calm is in that balm,
'Not lost, but gone before.'

O world wherein nor death, nor sin,
Nor weary warfare dwells;
Their blessed home we parted from
With sobs and sad farewells;

Where eyes awake, for whose dear sake
Our own with tears grow dis,
And faint accord of dying words

Are changed for heaven s sweet hymn;

Oh! there at last, life's trials past,
We'll meet our loved once more,
Whose feet have trod the path to God-
Not lost, but gone before."

THOMAS KIBBLE HERVEY-ALARIC A. WATTS.

MR. HERVEY, a native of Machester (1804-1859), for some years conducted the 'Athenæum' literary journal, and contributed to various other periodicals. He published Australia, and other Poems,' 1824; The Poetical Sketch-book,' 1829; Illustrations of Modern Sculpture,' 1832; The English Helicon,' 1841; &c. His verses are characterised by delicate fancy and feeling.

The Convict Ship.

Morn on the water! and, purple and bright,
Bursts on the billows the flushing of light;
O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun,
See the tall vessel goes gallantly on;

Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail,

And her pennon streams onward. like hope, in the gale;

The winds come around her, in marmar and song.

And the surges rejoice as they bear her along;

See! she looks up to the golden-edged clouds,
And the sailor sings gaily aloft in the shrouds⚫
Onward she glides, amid ripple and spray,
Over the waters-away, and away!
Bright as the visions of youth, ere they part,
Passing away, like a dream of the heart!

Who-as the beautiful pageant sweeps by,
Music around her. and sunshine on high-
Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow.
Oh! there be hearts that are breaking below!
Night on the way 8!-and the moon is on high,
Hang like a gem, on the brow of the sky,
Treading its deaths in the power of her might,
And turning the clouds, as they pas her, to light!
Look to the waters !-asleep on their breast,
Seems not the ship like an island of rest?
Bright and alone on the shadowy main,

Like a heart-cherished home on some desolate plain!

Who-as she smiles in the silvery light,
Spreading her wings on the bosom of night,
Alone on the deep, as the moon in the sky,

A phantom of beauty-could deem, with a sigh,
That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin,

And that souls that are smitten lie bursting within!
Who, as he watches her silently gliding.
Remembers that wave after wave is dividing
Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever,
Hearts which are parted and broken for ever!
Or deems that he watches afloat on the wave,
The death-bed of hope, or the young spirit's grave!
"Tis thus with our life, while it passes along,
Like a vessel at sea. amidst sunshine and song!
Gaily we glide, in the gaze of the world,

With streamers afloat, and with canvas unfurled,
All gladness and glory, to wandering eyes,
Yet chartered by sorrow and freighted with sighs:
Fading and false is th aspect it wears,

As the smiles we put on, just to cover our tears;

And the withering thoughts which the world cannot know,
Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below;

Whilst the vessel drives on to that desolate shore

Where the dreams of our childhood are vanished and o'er

The Poetical Sketches' (1822) and Lyrics of the Heart' (1850) of MR. ALARIC ALEXANDER WATTS (1799–1864) are similar to the productions of Mr. Hervey. Their author-a native of London-was connected with the periodical press, and was also among the first editors of those illustrated annual volumes once so numerous, in which poems and short prose sketches from popular or fashionable writers of the day were published. The 'Literary Souvenir' ran to ten volumes (1824-34), and the Cabinet of Modern Art' to three volumes (1835-38). Though generally very poor in point of literary merit, these illustrated annuals unquestionably fostered a taste for art among the people. In 1853, a pension of £300 was settled upon Mr. Watts.

GEORGE DARLEY-SIR AUBREY AND AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE.

A critic has said that many pensive fancies, thoughtful graces, and intellectual interests blossom beneath our busier life and our more rank and forward literature.' Some of these we have had the pleasure of pointing out, and among the graceful contributors of such

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poetry, we may include MR. DARLEY, author of 'Sylvia, or the May Queen' 1827; of Thomas a Becket,' and Ethelstan,' dramas; 'Errors of Extasie, and other Poems.' Mr. Darley-who was a native of DubHe was in the latlin-died at a comparatively early age in 1846. ter part of his life one of the writers in the Athenæum,' and an accomplished critic.-SIR AUBREY DE VERE (died in 1846) was author of two dramatic poems, ‘Julian, the Apostate,' 1822, and the 'The Duke of Mercia,' 1823; also of 'A Song of Faith, and other Poems,' 1842. The last volume is dedicated to Wordsworth, who had perused and ‘rewarded with praise' some of the pieces.-Sir Aubrey's third son, AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE (born in 1814), has published several pieces both in verse and prose-The Waldenses, with other Poems, 1842; The Search &fter Proserpine,' 1843: Mary Tudor, a Drama,' 1847; Sketches of Greece and Turkey,' 1850; The Infant Bridal, and other Poems,' 1864, &c.

ARCHBISHOP TRENCH.

Though of late chiefly known as a theologian and prose author, RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH early attracted attention by some poems evincing genuine feeling and graceful expression. The Story of Justin Martyr, and other Poems,' appeared in 1835: Sabbation' Honor Neale,' &c. in 1838; Elegiac Poems,' 1850; Poems from Eastern Sources,' 1851, &c. This accomplished divine is a native of Dublin, born in 1807. Having studied for the church, he was some In 1845, he became Rector time engaged in different places as curate. of Itchin-Stoke, near Alresford; Hulsean Lecturer at Cambridge in 1846; Professor and Examiner at King's College, London, in 1847; Dean of Westminster in 1856; and in 1864 he succeeded Dr. Whately as Archbishop of Dublin.

To the sound of evening bells
All that lives to rest repairs,
Birds unto their leafy dells.

Beasts unto their forest lairs.

Evening Hymn.

All things wear a home-bound look,
From the weary hind that plods
Through the corn-fields, to the rook
Sailing toward the glimmering woods
"Tis the time with power to bring

Tearful memories of home

To the sailor wandering

On the far-off barren foam.

Some Murmur, when

Some murmur. when their sky is clear
And wholly bright to view.
If one small speck of dark appear
In their great heaven of blue.
And some with thankful love are filled,

What a still and holy time!
Yonder glowing sunset seems
Like the pathway to a clime
Only seen till now in dreams.

Pilgrim here compelled to roam,
Nor allowed that path to tread,
Now, when sweetest sense of home
On all living hearts is shed,

Doth not yearning sad, sublime,
At this season stir thy breast,
That thou canst not at this time
Seek thy home and happy rest?
their Sky is Clear.

If but one streak of light,
One ray of God's good mercy gild
The darkness of their night.
In palaces are hearts that ask,
In discontent and pride,