painting instead of acting, which were the weaker side of its precursors, were here corrected. It is unfortunate that it wanted the benefit of her last corrections, as it was not published till some years after her death, and from the first rough draft-the amended one, which had been made from it, having been unfortunately lost. But, imperfect in many respects as it may be found to be, it is beyond compare the best and most successful composition of the author in this department. Without stripping the language of that richness and poetic grace which characterize her genius, or condescending to a single passage of mean baldness, so commonly mistaken by many modern dramatists as essentially necessary to the truth of dialogue, she has in this attempt preserved adherence to reality amid scenes allied to romance; brevity and effect, in situatious strongly alluring to amplification; and, in her delineation of some of the strongest as well as the finest emotions of the heart, she has exhibited a knowledge of nature's workings, remarkable alike for minuteness and truth.

When we consider the doubtful success which attended the only drama of Mrs. Hemans which was brought out, we cannot wonder that she latterly abandoned this species of writing, and confined herself to what she must have felt as much more accordant with her own impulses. The most labored of all her writings was The Forest Sanctuary, and it would appear that, in her own estimation, it was considered her best. Not so we. It has many passages of exquisite description, and it breathes throughout an exalted spirit; but withal it is monotonous in sentiment, and possesses not the human interest which ought to have attached to it, as a tale of suffering. To us The Last Constantine, which appears to have attracted much less attention, is in many respects a finer and better poem. Few things indeed, in our literature, can be quoted as more perfect than the picture of heroic and Christian courage, which, amid the ruins of his empire, sustained the last of the Cæsars. The weight of the argument is sustained throughout. The reader feels as if breathing a finer and purer atmosphere, above the low mists and vapors of common humanity; and he rises from the perusal of the poem alike with an admiration of its hero and its author.

The Last Constantine may be considered as the concluding great effort of Mrs. Hemans in what of her writings may be said to belong to the classical school. She seems here first to have felt her own power, and, leaving pre

cept and example, and the leading-strings of her predecessors, to have allowed her muse to soar adventurously forth. The Tales and Historic Scenes, the Sceptic Dartmoor, and Modern Greece, are all shaped according to the same model-the classical. The study of modern German poetry, and of Wordsworth, changed, while it expanded her views; and the Forest Sanctuary seems to have been composed with great elaboration, doubtless while in this transition state. In matter it is too flimsy and ethereal for a tale of life; it has too much sentiment and too little action. But some things in it would be difficult to rival. The scenery of South America is painted with a gorgeousness which reminds us of the Isle of Palms and its fairy bowers; and the death and burial at sea is imbued with a serene and soul-subduing beauty.

Diminishing space warns us to betake ourselves again to the lyrics and shorter pieces, where so much poetry" of purest ray serene" lies scattered. Of these we prefer such as are apparently the expressions of spontaneous feelings of her own to those which are built upon some tale or legend. It happens too, unfortunately, that in the latter case we have first to read the legend or fable in prose, and then to read it again in verse. This gives something of weariness to the Lays of Many Lands. Still less fortunate, we think, is the practice Mrs. Hemans indulges in of ushering in a poem of her own by a long quotationa favorite stanza, perhaps of some celebrated poet. We may possibly read the favorite stanza twice, and feel reluctant to proceed further. For instance, she quotes the beautiful and well known passage from Childe Harold upon the spring, ending with

I turned from all she brought to all she could not bring;

and on another occasion, that general favorite, beginning—

And slight, withal, may be the things which bring;

and then proceeds to enlarge upon the same sentiments. Her own strain that follows is good-but not so good. Is it wise to provoke the comparison?-and does it not give a certain frivolity, and the air of a mere exercise, to the verse which only repeats, and modifies, and varies, so to speak, the melody that has been already given? Or if the quotation set out with is looked on as a mere prelude, is it good policy to run the risk of the prelude being more interesting than the

strain itself? The beautiful passage from Southey

They sin who tell us love can die, &c.,

is too long to be quoted as merely a key-note to what is to follow, and is too good to be easily surpassed.

But this is a trifling remark, and hardly deserving of even the little space we have given to it. It is more worthy of observation, that Mrs. Hemans, a reader and admirer of German poetry, contrived to draw a deep inspiration from this noble literature, without any disturbance to her principles of taste. A careful perusal of her works, by one acquainted with the lyrical poetry of Germany, will prove how well and how wisely she had studied that poetry-drawing from it just that deeper spirit of reflection which would harmonize with her own mind, without being tempted to imitate what, either in thought or in manner, would have been foreign to her

nature.

We fancy we trace something of this Teutonic inspiration in the poem, amongst others, that follows:

THE SILENT MULTITUDE.

A mighty and a mingled throng
Were gathered in one spot;
The dwellers of a thousand homes-
Yet midst them voice was not.

The soldier and his chief were there-
The mother and her child:

The friends, the sisters of one hearth-
None spoke-none moved-none smiled.
There lovers met, between whose lives
Years had swept darkly by;
After that heart-sick hope deferred,
They met but silently.

You might have heard the rustling leaf,
The breeze's faintest sound,
The shiver of an insect's wing,

On that thick-peopled ground.

Your voice to whispers would have died, For the deep quiet's sake;

Your tread the softest moss have sought, Such stillness not to break.

What held the countless multitude Bound in that spell of peace? How could the ever-sounding life Amid so many cease?

Was it some pageant of the air,
Some glory high above,

That linked and hushed those human souls
In reverential love!

Or did some burdening passion's weight
Hang on their indrawn breath?
Awe-the pale awe that freezes words?
Fear-the strong fear of death?

A mightier thing-Death, Death himself,
Lay on each lonely heart!
Kindred were there yet hermits all,
Thousands-but each apart.

In any notice of Mrs. Hemans' works, not to mention The Records of Woman would seem an unaccountable omission. Both the subject, and the manner in which it is treated, especially characterize our poetess. Of all these Records there is not one where the picture is not more or less pleasing, or drawn with more or less power and fidelity. Estimated according to sheer literary merit, it would perhaps be impossible to give the preference to any one of them. Judging by the peculiar pleasure which its perusal gave us, we should select, for our favorite, The Switzer's Wife. Werner Stauffacher was one of the three confederates of the field of Grutli. He had been marked out by the Austrian bailiff as a fit subject for pillage; but it was to the noble spirit of his wife that he owed the final resolution he took to resist

the oppressor of his country. The whole scene is brought before us with singular distinctness. It is a beautiful evening in the Alpine valley :

For Werner sat beneath the linden tree,

That sent its lulling whispers through his door, Even as man sits, whose heart alone would be

With some deep care, and thus can find no more Th' accustomed joy in all which evening brings, Gathering a household with her quiet wings.

His wife stood hushed before him, sad, yet mild In her beseeching mien,-he marked it not. The silvery laughter of his bright-haired child Rang from the greensward round the sheltered spot,

But seemed unheard; until at last the boy Raised from his heaped-up flowers a glance of joy

And met his father's face; but then a change

Passed swiftly o'er the brow of infant glee, And a quiet sense of something dimly strange

Brought him from play to stand beside the knee So often climbed, and lift his loving eyes, That shone through clouds of sorrowful surprise.

"It is too sad to see thee thus, my friend! Mark'st thou the wonder on thy boy's fair brow, Missing the smile from thine? Oh, cheer thee! bend

To his soft arms, unseal thy thoughts e'en now!
Thou dost not kindly to withhold the share
Of tried affection in thy secret care."

He looked up into that sweet earnest face,
But sternly, mournfully: not yet the band
Was loosened from his soul.

He then tells how the oppressor's envious eye "had been upon his heritage," and tomorrow eve might find him in chains. The blood leaves her cheek, and she leans back on the linden stem, but only for a moment; her free Alpine spirit wakes within her—

And she that ever through her home had moved With the meek thoughtfulness and quiet smile Of woman, calmly loving and beloved,

And timid in her happiness the while,
Stood brightly forth, and steadfastly, that hour-
Her clear glance kindling into sudden power.

Ay, pale she stood, but with an eye of light,
And took her fair child to her holy breast,
And lifted her soft voice, that gathered might
As it found language:-"Are we thus op-
pressed?

Then must we rise upon our mountain-sod,
And man must arm, and woman call on God!

"I know what thou wouldst do;-and be it done! Thy soul is darkened with its fears for me. Trust me to heaven, my husband; this, thy son, The babe whom I have borne thee, must be free! And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearth May well give strength-if aught be strong on earth.

"Thou hast been brooding o'er the silent dread Of my desponding tears; now lift once more, My hunter of the hills, thy stately head,

And let thine eagle glance my joy restore! I can bear all but seeing thee subdued— Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood.

"Go forth beside the waters, and along

The chamois' paths, and through the forests go; And tell in burning words thy tale of wrong To the brave hearts that midst the hamlets glow. God shall be with thee, my beloved!—away! Bless but thy child and leave me !-I can pray!"

It is ever thus with all her women,-gentle, courageous, full of self-devotion, and, alas! of sorrow and suffering. This is her ideal of woman, from which she rarely departs--a heart overflowing with tenderest affection-ill-requited-yet refusing to receive any earthly boon as a substitute for the returned affection it seeks. Fame is no compensation

mans.

Genius singing to Love.

It is not often we find the superstitions of dark and ignorant ages dealt with in so gentle and agreeable a manner as by Mrs. HeShe seizes, in common with others, the poetic aspect these present, but diffuses over them, at the same time, a refinement of sentiment gathered entirely from her own feelings. A subject which from another pencil would have been disagreeable and offensive to us, is made by her graceful touches to win upon our imagination. Witness the poem called The Wood Walk and Hymn; we will quote the commencement of it :

An eminent critic in the Edinburgh Review has spoken of the neatness and perfect finish which characterize female writers in general, and Mrs. Hemans in particular. Now, these qualities imply a certain terseness and concentration of style, which is no more a peculiarity of all authoresses than of all authors, and which we should not pronounce to be peculiarly characteristic of Mrs. Hemans' poetry. To us it often appears wanting in this very conciseness; we occasionally wish that some lines and verses were excludednot because they are faulty in themselves, but because they weaken the effect, and detract from the vigor of the whole; we wish the verses, in short, were more closely packed together, so that the commencement and the close, which are generally both good, could be brought a little nearer to each other. It is not so much a redundancy of expression, as of images and illustrations, that we have sometimes to complain of in Mrs. Hemans. She uses two of these where one would not only suffice, but do the work much better. There is a very pleasing little poem, called The Wandering Wind: we will quote-first, because it is thus pleasing; and secondly, because we think it would have been rendered still more so had there been somewhat more of concentration and terseness in the style. The lines which we have printed in italics, and which contain the pith and marrow of the whole, would then have struck upon the ear with more distinctness and prominence.

THE WANDERING WIND.

The wind, the wandering wind

Of the golden summer eve-
Whence is the thrilling magic
Of its tones amongst the leaves?
Oh! is it from the waters,

Or from the long tall grass?
Or is it from the hollow rocks
Through which its breathings pass?

Or is it from the voices

Of all in one combined, That it wins the tone of mastery? The wind, the wandering wind! No, no! the strange, sweet accents That with it come and go, They are not from the osiers,

Nor the fir trees whispering low.

They are not of the waters,
Nor of the cavern'd hill-
'Tis the human love within us

That gives them power to thrill.
They touch the links of memory
Around our spirits twined,
And we start, and weep, and tremble!
To the wind, the wandering wind.

The verses beginning, "I dream of all things free," might also be cited as an instance of this tendency to over-amplify-a tendency which seems the result of a great affluence of poetical imagery. This would be a more powerful poem merely by being made shorter. We wait too long, and the imagination roves too far, before we arrive at the concluding lines, which contain all the point and significance of the piece :—

"My heart in chains is bleeding,
And I dream of all things free."

But

Of the measures and the melody of a lyrical poet something is expected to be said. what we feel we have chiefly to thank Mrs. Hemans for here is, that, in the search after novelty and variety of metre, she has made so few experiments upon our ear, and that she has not disdained to write with correctness and regularity. She has not apparently labored after novelties of this kind, but has adopted that verse into which her thought spontaneously ran. An author who does this is not very likely to select a rhythm, or measure, which is incongruous with the subjectmatter of his poem: nor, do we think, could many instances of such a fault be detected in Mrs. Hemans.

We will close our extracts with a strain that fairly exemplifies the serene and lucid current of sentiment, and the genuine natural pathos of our poetess. It is thus she makes the Hebrew mother sing to her first-born, whom she has devoted to the Lord :

Alas! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me;
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes;
And now fond thoughts arise,

And silver chords again to earth have won me,
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart-
How shall I hence depart?

How the lone paths retrace where thou wert playing

So late along the mountains at my side?

And I, in joyous pride,

By every place of flowers my course delaying,
Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair
Beholding thee so fair!

And oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted,

Will it not seem as if the sunny day
Turn'd from its door away!

While through its chambers wandering, wearyhearted,

I languish for thy voice, which past me still
Went like a singing rill?

Under the palm-tree thou no more shalt meet me,
When from the fount at evening I return,
With the full water urn;

me,

As midst the silence of the stars I wake,
And watch for thy dear sake.

And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round

thee,

Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed?
Wilt thou not vainly spread
Thine arms when darkness as a veil hath wound
thee,

To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear,

A cry which none shall hear?

What have I said, my child? Will He not hear thee,

Who the young ravens heareth from their nest? Shall He not guard thy rest,

And in the hush of holy midnight near thee, Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy?

Thou shalt sleep, soft, my boy.

I give thee to thy God-the God that gave thee A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart! And precious as thou art,

And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee, My own, my beautiful, my undefiled!

And thou shalt be His child.

again. Far better this, however, than a contrary fault; for it is the purpose of poetry to elevate, and not to repress. Admitting that the effervescence is adventitious, still it is of virtuous growth, and proceeds from no distortion of principle. If not the reflection of human nature as it actually is, it is the delineation of the fata morgana of a noble mind— of something that occurs to us "in musings high," and which we sigh to think of as of something loftier and better, to which that nature would willingly aspire. We can readily conceive, that to a woman of the exquisite taste possessed by Mrs. Hemans, any attempt at the startling or bizarre, either in conception ed. We do not mean to imply by this, that, or subject, was a thing especially to be avoidas every true poet must have, she had not a manner of her own. To this honor, no author of our day has higher or less equivocal claims. She knew what to admire in others, but she felt that she had a mission of her own.

To

substantiate this, we have only to suppose her productions blotted out from our literature, and then remark whether or not any blank be left; for, wherever we have origi

As the hart panteth for the water brooks,

Yearning for thy sweet looks.

But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me, Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell,

The Rock of Strength-Farewell !"

We must now draw to a conclusion. One great and pervading excellence of Mrs. Hemans, as a writer, is her entire dedication of her genius and talents to the cause of healthy morality and sound religion. The sentiment may be, on occasion, somewhat refined; it may be too delicate, in some instances, for the common taste, but never is it mawkish or morbid. Never can it be construed into a palliative of vice-never, when followed out to its limits, will be found to have led from the paths of virtue. For practical purposes, we admit that her exemplars are not seldom too ideal and picturesque. The general fault of her poetry consists in its being rather, if we may use the term, too romantical. We have a little too much of banners in churches, and flowers on graves, or self-immolated youths, and broken-hearted damsels ;-too frequent a reference to the Syrian plains, and knights in panoply, and vigils of arms, as mere illustrations of the noble in character, or the heroic in devotion. Situations are adduced as applicable to general conduct, which have only occurred, or could only have occurred, in particular states of society, and are never

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originality is of all shades and grades, from a Burns to a Bloomfield, from a Crabbe to a Clare still the names of the second and the fourth are those of true poets, as well as those of the authors of "The Cottar's Saturday Night," and "Sir Eustace Gray,”— Parnassus, as Dr. Johnson observes, having its flowers of transient fragrance, as well as its cedars of perennial growth, and its laurels of eternal verdure." In the case of Mrs. Hemans, this question is set at rest, from her having become the founder of a school, and that only eclipsed in the number of its adherents and imitators by those of Scott, Byron, and Wordsworth. In America especially has this been the case; a great part of the recent poetry in that country-more particularly that of its female writers-has been little more than an echo of her Records of Woman and Lays of Many Lands, and lyrical strains ; and, from Mrs. Sigourney-"the American Mrs. Hemans"-downwards, there are only corroborative proofs of a Cis-atlantic fact, that no copyist, however acute and faithful, has ever yet succeeded in treading on the kibes of his master, far less of outstripping him in the struggle for excellence.

Like all original writers, Mrs. Hemans has her own mode and her own province. In reading the poetry of Wordsworth, we feel as if transferred to the mountainous solitudes