FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS.

HEMANS, FELICIA DOROTHEA (BROWNE), an English poet; born in Liverpool, September 25, 1793; died near Dublin, Ireland, May 16, 1835. She was noted for rare personal beauty and for precocity of genius, to which in after years she added an acquaintance with French, German, Italian, Portuguese and Spanish, together with some skill as a musician and artist. At the age of fourteen she put forth a little volume of poems entitled "Early Blossoms," and four years afterward another entitled "The Domestic Affections." The literary labors of Mrs. Hemans fairly commenced soon after the separation from her husband, which occurred in 1818. She wrote several narrative poems of considerable length, of which "The Forest Sanctuary" is the longest and best. She also wrote two tragedies, "The Vespers of Palermo," and "The Siege of Valencia." The greater part of the poems of Mrs. Hemans consists of short pieces which may be styled Lyrics. Four years before her death she took up her residence in Ireland. Her constitution began to give way, and some time before her death she almost entirely lost the use of her limbs.

THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP,

WHAT hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells,
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main?
Pale glistening pearls and rainbow-colored shells,
Bright things which gleam unrecked-of and in vain!
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy Sea!

Yet more

We ask not such from thee.

the depths have more! What wealth untold, Far down and shining through their stillness, lies! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,

Won from ten thousand royal argosies!

Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main!
Earth claims not these again.

Yet more

the depths have more! Thy waves have rolled Above the cities of a world gone by;

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TRNOY AND

UNDATIONS

Sand hath filled up the palaces of old,
Seaweed o'ergrown the halls of revelry.
Dash o'er them, Ocean, in thy scornful play!
Man yields them to decay.

Yet more - the billows and the depths have more!
High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast!
They hear not now the booming waters' roar,

The battle thunders will not break their rest.
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!
Give back the true and brave!

Give back the lost and lovely! those for whom
The place was kept at board and hearth so long!
The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom,
And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song.
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown
But all is not thine own.

To thee the love of woman hath gone down;

-

Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,
O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown;
Yet must thou hear a voice: Restore the dead!
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee —
Restore the dead, thou Sea!

THE HOUR OF DEATH.

LEAVES have their time to fall,

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

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 prayer-
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth!

The banquet hath its hour,

Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine;
There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power,
A time for softer tears but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thee but thou art not of those

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That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey,

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!

We know when moons shall wane,

When summer birds from far shall cross the sea,
When autumn's hues shall tinge the golden grain-
But who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when spring's first gale

Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?
They have one season all are ours to die!
Thou art where billows foam,

Thou art where music melts upon the air;
Thou art around us in our peaceful home;
And the world calls us forth - and thou art there.

Thou art where friend meets friend,

Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest;

Thou art where foe meets foe, and tempests rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

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!

THE LOST PLEIAD.

AND is there glory from the heavens departed?
O void unmarked!-thy sisters of the sky
Still hold their place on high,

Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started,
Thou that no more art seen of mortal eye.

Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night?
She wears her crown of old magnificence,
Though thou art exiled thence;

No desert seems to part those urns of light,
Midst the far depth of purple gloom intense.

They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning:
The shepherd greets them on his mountains free;
And from the silvery sea

To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turning

Unchanged they rise, they have not mourned for thee.