Work-work-work! My abour never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, That shattered roof-and this naked A table-a broken chair; And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank 'Work-work-work! As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand. 'Work-work-work! In the dull December light, When the weather is warm and bright- The brooding swallows cling, As if to shew me their sunny backs, The following stanzas possess a sad yet sweet reality of tone and imagery: The Death-bed. We watched her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, So silently we seemed to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers Our very hopes belied our fears, For when the morn came dim and sad, Her quiet eyelids closed-she had Hood's works have been collected into four volumes: Poems of Wit and Humour Hood's Own, or Laughter from Year to Year ;' and Whims and Oddities in Prose and Verse.' A son of Mr. Hood's (commonly termed Tom HOOD) was also a professional litterateur, author of several novels, books for children, and other works: he was also editor of a comic periodical, ‘Fun.' He died in 1874, aged 39. DAVID MACBETH MOIR. Under the signature of the Greek letter Delta, DAVID MACBETH MOIR (1798-1851) was a large poetical contributor to Blackwood's Magazine.' His best pieces are grave and tender, but he also wrote some lively jeux d'esprit, and a humorous Scottish tale. The Autobiography of Mansie Wauch,' which was published in one volume, in 1828. His other works are: The Legend of Genevieve, with other Tales and Poems,' 1824; Outlines of the Ancient History of Medicine,' 1831; Domestic Verses,' 1843; and Sketches of the Poetical Literature of the Past Half-century,' 1851. His Poetical Works, edited by Thomas Aird-who prefixed to the collection an excellent memoir of the poet-were published in two volumes in 1852. Mr. Moir practised as a surgeon in his native town of Musselburgh, beloved by all who knew him. Of his poetry, Mr. Aird says: 'In Delta's earlier strains there are generally fancy, and feeling, and musical rhythm, but not much thought. His love of poetry, however, never suffered abatement, and as a maker," he was improving to the very last. To unfaded freshness of heart he was adding riper thought: such was one of the prime blessings of his pure nature and life. Reserve and patience were what he wanted, in order to be a greater name in song than he is.' When Thou at Eve art Roaming. I. When thou at eve art roaming Along the elm-o'ershaded walk, Where fast the eddving stream is foaming, And falling down-a cataract, 'Twas there with thee I wont to talk; Think thou upon the days gone by, And heave a sigh. II. When sails the moon above the mountains, While pausing on the hours I proved III. When wakes the dawn upon thy dwelling, Muse, for that hour to thought is dear, IV. To me, through every season dearest; Where'er I am. by shore-at sea- REV. JOHN MOULTRIE. Associated with Praed, Macaulay, Henry Nelson Coleridge, and others in the Etonian' and 'Knight's Quarterly Magazine,' was the REV. JOHN MOULTRIE (1799-1874), for some time rector of Rugby-an amiable and accomplished man, and one of the most graceful and meditative of the minor poets. He published two volumes- My Brother's Grave, and other Poems,' 1837; and The Dream of Life, and other Poems,' 1843: also a volume of 'Sermons preached in the Parish Church of Rugby,' 1852. A complete edition of Moultrie's poems was published in 1876, with memoir by the Rev. Derwent Coleridge, one of the most attached and admiring of his college friends. The following is part of one of his earliest and best poems. My Brother's Grave. Beneath the chancel's hallowed stone, In simplest phrase recorded there: Where thou, beneath thy burial stone, Art laid in that unstartled sleep The living eye hath never known.' The lonely sexton's footstep falls In disinal echoes on the walls, As, slowly pacing through the aisle. He sweeps the unholy dust away. And cobwebs, which must not defile Those windows on the Sabbath day; And, passing through the central nave, Treads lightly on my brother's grave. But when the sweet-toned Sabbath chime, When rustic crowds devoutly meet, And lips and hearts to God are given, And souls enjoy oblivion sweet Of earthly ills, in thought of heaven; What voice of calm and solemn tone Is heard above thy burial stone? What form, in priestly meek array Beside the altar kneels to pray? What holy hands are iifted up To bless the sacramental cup? Those tones would reach thee, though the worm, My brother, makes thy heart his bed; It is not long since thou wert wont These stones which now thy dust conceal, The sweet tones of the Sabbath bell, Untainted by the world's control. My soul was then, as thine is now, And years have passed, and thou art now And cheerful is my mother's brow; My father's eye has lost its gloom: And years have passed, and death has laid Another victim by thy side; But not more pure than thou he died. Blest are ye both! your ashes rest Beside the spot ye loved the best; O'erlooks you in your bed of earth. But who can tell what blissful shore THE HON. MRS. NORTON. The family of Sheridan has been prolific of genius, and MRS. NORTON has well sustained the honours of her race. Richard Brinsley Sheridan, by his marriage with Miss Linley, had one son, Thomas, whose convivial wit and fancy were scarcely less bright or less esteemed than those of his father, and whose many amiable qualities greatly endeared him to his friends. He died at a comparatively early age (in 1817), while filling the office of Colonial Paymaster at the Cape of Good Hope. In 1803, Thomas Sheridan was in Scotland, in the capacity of aide-de-camp to Lord Moira, and he there married a daughter of Colonel and Lady Elizabeth Callender of Craigforth, by whom he had a numerous family.* Caroline Elizabeth Sarah was one of three sisters; she was born in 1808, and in her nineteenth year was married to the Hon. George Chapple Norton, son of the first Lord Grantley. This union was dissolved in 1840, after Mrs. Norton had been the object of suspicion and persecution of the most painful description. Mr. Norton was for thirty years recorder of Guildford; he died in 1875. From her childhood, Caroline Sheridan wrote verses. Her first publication was an attempt at satire, 'The Dandies' Rout,' to which she added illustrative drawings. In her seventeenth year she wrote The Sorrows of Rosalie,' a poem embodying a pathetic story of village-life, but which was not published until 1829. Her next work was a poem founded on the ancient legend of the Wandering Jew, and which she termed The Undying One,' 1831. A novel, The Wife and Woman's Reward,' 1835, was Mrs. Norton's next production. In 1840 appeared The Dream, and other Poems.' In 1845, she published The Child of the Islands,' a poem written to draw the attention of the Prince of Wales, when he should be able to attend to social questions, to the condition of the people 'in a land and time wherein there is too little communication between classes,' and too little expression of sympathy on the part of the rich towards the poor. This was no new theme of the poetess: she had years before written letters on the subject, which were published in the 'Times' newspaper. At Christmas 1846, Mrs. Norton issued two poetical fairy tales, Aunt Carry's Ballads for Children,' which charm alike by their graceful fancy and brief sketches of birds, woods, and flowers. In 1850 appeared a volume of Tales and Sketches in Prose and Verse,' being a collection of miscellaneous pieces originally contributed to periodicals. Lady Elizabeth, the mother of Mrs. Norton, was a daughter of the Earl of Antrim, She wrote a novel, entitled Caricell. Those who trace the preponderance o talent to the mother's side, may conclude that a fresh infusion of Irish genius was added to the Sheridan family by this connection. Next year a bolder venture is tried, a three-volume novel, entitled 'Stuart of Dunleath, a Story of Modern Times.' The incidents of this story are too uniformly sad and gloomy-partly tinged by the bitter experiences of the authoress; but it presents occasional passages of humour and sarcasm, and a more matured though unfavourable knowledge of the world. It seemed as if the mind of the accomplished writer had been directed more closely to the evils done under the sun,' and that she longed passionately for power to redress them. In 1854 she wrote English Laws for Women in the Nineteenth Century; in 1862, The Lady of Garaye;' in 1863, a novel entitled 'Lost and Saved.' Her subsequent public appearances have been chiefly on topics of social importance; and the recent improvement in the English marriage laws may be traced primarily to the eloquent pleadings and untiring exertions of Mrs. Norton. This lady,' says a writer in the Quarterly Review,' is the Byron of our modern poetesses. She has very much of that intense personal passion by which Byron's poetry is distinguished from the larger grasp and deeper communion with man and nature of Wordsworth. She has also Byron's beautiful intervals of tenderness, his strong practical thought, and his forceful expression. It is not an artificial imitation, but a natural parallel.' The truth of this remark, both as to poetical and personal similarity of feeling, will be seen from the following impassioned verses, addressed by Mrs. Norton to the late Duchess of Sutherland, to whom she dedicated her Poems. The simile of the swan flinging aside the turbid drops' from her snowy wing is certainly worthy of Byron. But happily Mrs. Norton has none of Byron's misanthropy or cold hopelessness. To the Duchess of Sutherland. Once more, my harp! once more, although I thought A wandering dream thy gentle chords have wrought, Into the poet's heaven, and leaves dull grief below! And unto thee-the beautiful and pure Whose lot is cast amid that busy world Where only sluggish Dullness dwells secure, And Fancy's generous wing is faintly furled; Through the most dreary hour of my embittered youth I dedicate the lay. Ah! never bard, In days when poverty was twin with song; Nor wandering harper, lonely and ill-starred,' Cheered by some castle's chief, and harboured long; Not Scott's Last Minstrel, in his trembling lays, Woke with a warmer heart the earnest meed of praise! For easy are the alms the rich man spares But thou gav'st me, what women seldom dares, R. L. v.7-3 |