narrow crimson ribbon, now soiled with frequent handling, which far into some winter's night I take down from its nook upon my shelf, and untie, and open, and run over, with such sorrow and such joy, such tears and such smiles, as I am sure make me, for weeks after, a kinder and holier man. 5. There are, in this little packet, letters in the familiar hand of a mother,-what gentle admonition-what tender affection!-God have mercy on him who outlives the tears that such admonitions and such affection call up to the eye! There are others in the budget, in the delicate and unformed hand of a loved and lost sister,-written when she and you were full of glee and the best mirth of youthfulness. Does it harm you to recall that mirthfulness? or to trace again, for the hundredth time, that scrawling postscript at the bottom, with its i's so carefully dotted, and its gigantic t's so carefully crossed, by the childish hand of a little brother? 6. Let me gather up these letters carefully,-to be read when the heart is faint, and sick of all there is unreal and selfish in the world. Let me tie them together with a new and longer bit of ribbon-not by a love-knot, that is too hard, but by an easy slipping knot, that so I may get at them the better. And now they are all together, a snug packet, and we will label them-not sentimentally (I pity the one who thinks it), but earnestly, and in the best meaning of the term-SOUVENIRS OF THE HEART.-Donald G. Mitchell. II.-Spring. 1. Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain, 2. Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns Into a royal court with green festoons In the deep heart of every forest-tree And there's a look about the leafless bowers As if they dreamed of flowers. 3. Already, here and there, on frailest stems Appear some azure gems, Small as might deck, upon a gala-day, The forehead of a fay." In gardens you may note, amid the dearth, And, near the snow-drop's tender white and green, 4. But many gleams and shadows needs must pass And weeks go by, before the enamored South Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn In the sweet airs of morn: One almost looks to see the very street Grow purple at his feet. 5. At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by, a And brings, you know not why, A feeling as when eager crowds await Before a palace gate Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start, A blue-eyed Dryad,' stepping forth, should say, "Behold me! I am May!"-Henry Timrod. Fay, a fairy, an elf. The Dryads, in Grecian mythology, were female deities who were supposed to inhabit groves, and to preside over trees. CHAPTER LXXIX.-ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.— 1809-1861. I.-Biographical. 1. Elizabeth Barrett, born in London of wealthy parents, was educated with great strictness of discipline and in a wide range of studies. She carly signalized her gifts by metaphysical essays and a metrical translation of Prometheus Bound, and by two theological dramas,- The Fall of Man, and The Emotion of Angels while Beholding the Crucifixion. Some minor poems had also given evidence of her ability. Owing to the rupture of a blood-vessel, her life was long despaired of; but even then she diverted herself in studying Greek and Hebrew, from which she made translations. Robert Browning sought the invalid's acquaintance, became her accepted lover, and married her ere her health was completely restored. Their married life was spent at Florence, in Italy, where Mrs. Browning became a witness of the Italian struggle for nationality, of which she sang with the passion and aspiration of a native. 2. Mrs. Browning's poems have been much criticised for their irregular rhymes, but they have done much to free subsequent writers from the tyranny of exact correspondences of sound. She has faults kindred to those of her husband, being at times subtile and obscure. Her learning was extraordinary: her writings are constantly a woman's reflections on a woman's experiences. They are colored with sympathy for suffering, and with indignation at injustice. Mrs. Browning's most ambitious piece is Aurora Leigh, a narrative poetical romance, splendid in parts, but, on the whole, incongruous and unsatisfactory. Perhaps the most finished of this lady's smaller poems-said to "contain not one jarring line or expression"-is the one called forth by a view of Cowper's grave, from which we extract a few verses. II.-Cowper's Grave. 1. It is a place where poets crowned may feel the heart's decaying: It is a place where happy saints may weep amid their praying: Yet let the grief and humbleness, as low as silence, languish : Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave her anguish. 2. O poets! from the maniac's tongue was poured the deathless singing! O Christians! at your cross of hope, a hopeless hand was clinging! O men! this man, in brotherhood your weary paths beguiling, Groaned inly while he taught you peace, and died while ye were smiling! 3. And now, what time ye all may read through dimming tears his story, How discord on the music fell, and darkness on the glory, And how when, one by one, sweet sounds and wandering lights departed, He wore no less a loving face because so broken-hearted,— 4. He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vocation, And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker adora tion; Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise or good forsaken,Named softly as the household name of one whom God hath taken. 5. With quiet sadness and no gloom I learn to think upon him, With meekness that is gratefulness to God whose heaven hath won him, Who suffered once the madness-cloud to His own love to blind him, But gently led the blind along where breath and bird could find him, 6. And wrought within his shattered brain such quick poetic senses As hills have language for, and stars, harmonious influ ences: The pulse of dew upon the grass kept his within its number, And silent shadows from the trees refreshed him like a slumber. 7. And though, in blindness, he remained unconscious of that guiding, And things provided came without the sweet sense of providing, He testified this solemn truth, while frenzy-desolated,Nature nor man can satisfy whom only God created. Another of Mrs. Browning's poems is a pathetic and impassioned pleading for the poor children who toil in mines and factories. "In individuality and intensity of feeling," says a modern critic, "this piece resembles Hood's Song of the Shirt, but it infinitely surpasses it in poetry and imagination." It is entitled III.-The Cry of the Children. 1. Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, The young lambs are bleating in the meadows; The young fawns are playing with the shadows; |