Magnificent, and Leo X." The last "The starry Galileo with his woes") winter she was in Wavertree, she took-by which he pays for his consummate lessons in music, and derived much excellence. He scarcely knows what pleasure from a newly-discovered faculty sleep is; and his nerves are wrought, of musical composition. At this time to such almost preternatural acuteness, her health began decidedly to fail, and that harsh, even common sounds, are her physician enjoined upon her "great often torture to him; he is unable somecare and perfect quiet," to prevent her times to bear a whisper in his room. disease (an affection of the heart) from His passion for music he described as assuming a dangerous character. an all-absorbing, a consuming one; in fact, he looks as if no other life than that ethereal one of melody, were circulating in his veins. But, he added, with a glow of triumph kindling through deep sadness: Mais, c'est un don du ciel.' I heard all this, which was no more than I had imagined, with a still deepening conviction, that it is the gifted before all others-those whom the multitude believe to be rejoicing in their own fame, strong in their own resourceswho have most need of true hearts to rest upon, and of hope in God to support."

In the spring of 1831, Mrs. Hemans removed to Dublin, and shortly after paid a visit to her brother, Major Browne, at Kilkenny. She writes:"The state of the country here, though Kilkenny is considered tranquil, is certainly, to say the least of it, very ominous. We paid a visit, yesterday evening, at a clergyman's house about five miles hence, and found a guard of eight armed policemen stationed at the gate; the window ledges were all provided with great stones, for the convenience of hurling down upon assailants, and the master of the house had not for a fortnight taken a walk without loaded pistols. You may well imagine how the boys, who are all | here for the holidays, were enchanted with this agreeable state of things; indeed, I believe they were not a little disappointed that we reached home without having sustained an attack from the White-feet."

After some reference to the increas ingly delicate state of Mrs. Hemans' health, her sister remarks:-" A delight in sacred literature, and particularly in the writings of some of our old divines, became from henceforward her predominant taste; and her earnest and diligent study of the Scriptures was a wellspring of daily increasing comfort.

.

She now sought no longer to forget her trials-(a wild wish and a longing vain!' as such attempts must ever have proved)—but rather to contemplate them through the only true and reconciling medium; and that relief from sorrow and suffering for which she had once been apt to turn to the fictitious world of imagination, was now afforded her by calm and constant meditation on what can alone be called 'the things that are.'

Mrs. Hemans did not go into society much at Dublin. She formed, however, several very interesting friendships. Among them may be mentioned Archbishop Whateley, Sir William Hamilton, and Mr. Blanco White. It was here that she heard Paganini for the first time. She alludes to his magical performances in the following letter:-"To begin with the appearance of the foreign wonder. It is very different from what the undiscriminating newspaper accounts would lead you to suppose. He A very pleasing incident occurred at is certainly singular looking, pale, slight, this time. A stranger called upon Mrs, and with long, neglected hair; but I Hemans one day, while she was still saw nothing whatever of that wildfire, very unwell and obliged to decline visits that almost ferocious inspiration of mien from all, except her nearest friends. He which has been ascribed to him. Indeed begged, however, so earnestly to see I thought the expression of the counte- her, that refusal was impossible; and nance rather that of good-nature-a mild then, in terms of the deepest feeling, he enjouement than of anything else; and his expressed his warm gratitude to her, in bearing altogether simple and natural." that through reading her poem of "The She writes again: ". related to Sceptic," he had passed from the darkme a most interesting conversation heness of infidelity to the light of faith and had had with Paganini, in a private trust in all the infinite consolation of circle. The latter was describing to the Christian religion. him the sufferings-(do you remember a line of Byron's?

In 1833, Mrs. Hemans designed the plan of a volume of sacred poetry, after

wards published under the title of "Scenes and Hymns of Life." She writes:-"I have now passed through the feverish and somewhat visionary state of mind, often connected with the passionate study of art in early life; deep affections and deep sorrows seem to have solemnized my whole being, and I even feel as if bound to higher and holier tasks, which, though I may occasionally lay aside, I could not long wander from without some sense of dereliction. I hope it is no self-delusion, but I cannot help sometimes feeling as if it were my true task to enlarge the sphere of sacred poetry and extend its influence. When you receive my volume of 'Scenes and Hymns,' you will see what I mean by enlarging the sphere, though my plans are as yet imperfectly developed."

about this period, in consequence of an attack of fever. On her recovery she went on an excursion into Wicklow county, for change of air, but, most unfortunately, the inn to which she repaired was infected with scarlet fever, and both herself and servant " caught the contagion." On her partial convalescence she returned to Dublin; and, the same autumn, through being exposed to the evening air, she took a cold, that was followed by distressing ague attacks, from the effects of which she never more recovered. In December, for the sake of change of scene, she removed to the country residence of Archbishop Whateley, at Redesdale, which was kindly placed at her disposal. Here she writes:-"My fever, though still returning at its hours, is still decidedly abated, with several of its most In 1834, the "Hymns for Childhood," exhausting accompaniments, and those the "National Lyrics," and lastly, the intense throbbing headaches have left "Scenes and Hymns of Life," were pub-me, and allowed me gradually to resume lished. All were favourably received, the inestimable resource of reading, and especially the latter. In a letter to though frequent drowsiness obliges me a friend, Mrs. Hemans observes:-"I to use it very moderately. But better find in the Athenæum' of last week, far than these indications of recovery is a_brief but satisfactory notice of the the sweet religious peace, which I feel Scenes and Hymns.' The volume is gradually overshadowing me with its recognised as my best work, and the dove-pinions, excluding all that would course it opens out, called 'a noble path.' exclude thoughts of God. I would I My heart is growing faint. Shall I could convey to you the deep feeling of have power given me to tread that way repose and thankfulness with which I much further?" lay one Friday evening gazing from my sofa, upon a sunset sky of the richest suffusion, silvery green and amber kindling into the most glorious tints of the burning rose. I felt its holy beauty sinking through my inmost being, with an influence drawing me nearer and nearer to God."

In the summer of the same year, Mrs. Hemans was startled and deeply affected by the news of the death of her friend, Mrs. Fletcher, late Miss Jewsbury, who died in India. The following extract from one of her letters, will best describe her state of feeling on the reception of this melancholy news:-" I was, indeed, deeply and permanently affected by the untimely fate of one so gifted and so affectionately loving me, as our poor lost friend. It hung the more solemnly upon my spirit, as the subject of death and the mighty future had so many times been that of our most confidential communion. How" much deeper power seemed to lie coiled up, as it were, in the recesses of her mind, than were ever manifested to the world in her writings! Strange and sad does it seem, that only the broken music of such a spirit should have been given to the earth, the full and finished harmony never drawn forth."

Mrs. Hemans was obliged to relinquish a projected visit to England

The state of her health being rather worse than better, Mrs. Hemans left Redesdale for her own home at Dublin, in March, 1835. She was, henceforth, confined to her room, and often the prey of acute suffering. But her soul was ever enwreathed with a sweet serenity, an atmosphere of joy and love-the peace that passeth all understanding." Her spirit was haunted at times by dreams of immortal beauty, as if borne by ministering angels to illumine her couch of death. She would sometimes say, no poetry could express, no imagination conceive the visions of blessedness that flitted across her fancy." Again, she remarked, "I feel as if hovering between heaven and earth." She assured one of her friends that “the

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tenderness and affectionateness of the or less creatures of dependence. We Redeemer's character, which they had often contemplated together, was now a source, not merely of reliance, but of positive happiness to her-the sweetness of her couch.

On Sunday, April 26th, she dictated her last poem to her brother. It was the "Sabbath Sonnet." Throughout her illness, she enjoyed the watchful care of her brother and sister-in-law, and was tenderly and faithfully attended by her servant, Anna Creer, a young woman of singular intelligence and warm-heartedness. On the evening of Saturday, May the 16th, 1835, the bright and gentle spirit of Felicia Hemans passed peacefully away from an earthly slumber to that divine rest which "God giveth His beloved." A simple tablet was erected to her memory, inscribed with some lines from a dirge of her own composition:

Calm on the bosom of thy God,
Fair spirit! rest thee now!
E'en while with us thy footsteps trode,
His seal was on thy brow.
Dust to its narrow house beneath,
Soul to its place on high!
They that have seen thy look in death,
No more may fear to die.

Having thus taken an imperfect glance over the life-history of this sweet singer, and most aimable woman, let us proceed with a brief but comprehensive survey of the writings on which rest the foundation of her literary fame. We will endeavour to trace the connection between her life and her poetry, which we believe will be found to be attuned in perfect harmony; the one forming, as it were, a kind of complement to the other, the story of her existence, interpreting the burden of her song.

Seldom have genius and Christianity been more beautifully and intimately allied than in the case of Felicia Hemans. Religion with her was not merely a name, but a thing of life and reality. Hence it is the sweet and gentle undertone which runs through all her poetry; the rich perfume in which her most tender and refined sentiment is ever embalmed; the voice that mingles with the music of her every outburst of feeling; the fair soft light in fine which rests on each page of her writings. The gift of genius is oftimes one fatal to its possessor. Such persons are not unfrequently erratic stars. Nor is this a matter of surprise, for their position is one of peculiar trial. We are all more

require sympathy, and we derive a pleasure from being understood and appreciated. Herein lies one of the peculiar trials of which genius is sus ceptible; for by its very nature it is in most instances beyond ordinary comprehension, and consequently it is unrecognised, and of course meets with but little sympathy. Thus the “loneliness amid a crowd," becomes doubly true.

Filled with high aspirations after all that is great and beautiful, the soul of genius is continually doomed to deep and bitter disappointment in this world of ours. Living in a realm of wonder and of strange mystery, the mind thus endowed is liable, in an extraordinary degree, to the assailant questionings of doubt, and the reasonings of a false phi losophy. What marvel, then, if it sometimes go astray? And the method by which such minds have been too often treated acts by no means as a remedy. Oh, world! how many high spirits have been crushed, how many deep true hearts have been broken by thy cold scorn, by thy proud indifference! Better, far better it were to meet them on their ways of wandering, with words of love and of tender entreaty, and thus gently to guide them into the "paths of peace" and of blessedness, to enchant them by a vision of beauty, fairer than their brightest dreams, and to fill their thirsting spirits with all the joy. breathing harmonies of the truth eternal.

Many are the dark histories unveiled by the chronicles of genius. We have the sad record of a Chatterton

The marvellous boy,

The sleepless soul who perished in his pride.

And a Byron, like another Cain, wandering over land and sea, seeking rest, and finding none. And a Keats, "true prophet of the beautiful," bending beneath the weight of ungenerous criticism, like a surcharged lily, to his Roman grave. Here, too, is the "star-eyed" Alastor, with his fair locks disparted Greek-wise over his pale forehead, shipwrecked amid the billows of a cold despair.

Lucretius nobler than his mood,

Who cast his plummet down the bread Deep universe, and said, "No God!" Such stories make us sad. We look upon these highly-gifted souls with an admiration mingled with much trembling. We reflect on what they might have been, compared, alas! with what

Take

and the "Siege of Valentia." It is in of restless radiance, but the still, unher charming relation of striking inci- troubled shining of the star. Consedents and in her shorter lyrics that Mrs. quently her muse is invariably of a Hemans particularly excels. Her poetry deliciously soothing character. She is is ever elegant, true and tender in sen- unsurpassed in graceful and felicitous timent, perfect in harmony, and some-expression, and in true and tender senwhat mournful in tone. It is the aspira- timent, especially where she has refertion after a higher and holier sphere; ence to the domestic affections. the soul weary and dissatisfied with as an example, the "First Grief," or earth; the exile sighing for its home; and the heartfelt longing for the love and the truth divine. In common with all high souls Mrs. Hemans often gives utterance to feelings similar to those which prompted Margaret Davidson to exclaim:

Earth! thou hast nought to satisfy The cravings of an immortal mind! And it is this sentiment, together with the deep thirst for some true fountain of affection, which may be said to form the key-note of her poetry. Her music is a soft bird-like melody; low and plaintive, sometimes rising into strains of generous enthusiasm; and as the zephyr amid the forest greenery, it ever breathes if not of gladness, of all that is fair and free. The "vision and the faculty divine" appear seldom to have oppressed Mrs. Hemans as with a woe and a burden, and a strange joy, which must break forth in a wail of impassioned music or in a gush of wild exultation. The realm of poetic enchantment in which she delighted to wander was enwreathed with a kind of dreamy beauty, like one of Turner's landscapes; it was the home of all sweet and tender remembrances; of high and noble hopes; of warm patriotism and of undying love. A land moreover filled to overflowing with the whispers of seraphic song; those "lays of Paradise," o'er which as they vibrate amid his spirit chords, the poet vainly weeps, in his inability to interpret them more fully.

The serene repose of Mrs. Hemans' world of thought was seldom disturbed by the voice of the "rushing winds of inspiration." Her poems, therefore, seldom bear the impress of intense excitement, of strong and fervent impulses; they are more the expression of habitual states of mind and feeling; hence they have been charged with exhibiting a tinge of monotony. Theirs is not the fall of a mountain torrent, but the silvery murmuring of a rill amid the light and shade, the hills and the meadows. The light of genius with her was not a flash |

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.

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

The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight-
Where are those dreamers now?

One midst the forests of the West,
By a dark stream is laid;
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea hath one,
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where Southern vines are
drest,

Above the noble slain;

He wrapt his colours round his breast,
On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd;
She faded midst Italian flowers,
The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest who play'd
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd
Around one parent knee!

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

And nought beyond, oh earth!

Few poets have more beautifully adapted their style of versification to the sentiment they wish to convey, than Felicia Hemans. Her "Song of the Battle of Morgarten," and that sublime little lyric, "The Trumpet," seem to ring like some martial music; and solemn and touching as the thought they express, is the flow of the following stanzas from the " Hour of Death :"

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,

And stars to set-but all

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Day is for mortal care,

Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,
Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.

Its

A

prayer;

time for softer tears—but all are thine.