SUMMER EVENING, AT HOME.

COME, lovely Evening, with thy smile of peace
Visit my humble dwelling, welcomed in,

Not with loud shouts, and the throng'd city's din,
But with such sounds as bid all tumult cease
Of the sick heart; the grasshopper's faint pipe
Beneath the blades of dewy grass unripe,
The bleat of the lone lamb, the carol rude
Heard indistinctly from the village green,
The bird's last twitter from the hedge-row scene,
Where, just before, the scatter'd crumbs I strew'd,
To pay him for his farewell song,-all these
Touch soothingly the troubled ear, and please
The stilly-stirring fancies,-though my hours
(For I have droop'd beneath life's early show'rs)
Pass lonely oft,—and oft my heart is sad;
Yet I can leave the world, and feel most glad
To meet thee, Evening, here; here my own hand
Has deck'd with trees and shrubs the slopes around,
And whilst the leaves by dying airs are fann'd,
Sweet to my spirit comes the farewell sound,
That seems to say, "Forget the transient tear
Thy pale youth shed,-repose and peace are here."

WINTER EVENING, AT HOME.

fall

FAIR moon! that at the chilly day's decline
Of sharp December, through my cottage pane
Dost lovely look, smiling, though in thy wane;
In thought, to scenes, serene and still as thine,
Wanders my heart, whilst I by turns survey
Thee slowly wheeling on thy evening way;
And this my fire, whose dim, unequal light,
Just glimmering, bids each shadowy image
Sombrous and strange upon the dark'ning wall,
Ere the clear tapers chase the deep'ning night!
Yet thy still orb, seen through the freezing haze,
Shines calm and clear without; and whilst I gaze
I think-around me in this twilight room
I but remark mortality's sad gloom;
Whilst hope, and joy, cloudless and soft appear
In the sweet beam that lights thy distant sphere !

SONNETS.

TIME.

O TIME! who know'st a lenient hand to lay
Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
The faint pang stealest, unperceived, away;
On thee I rest my only hope at last,

And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear
That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,
I may look back on every sorrow past,
And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile,-
As some lone bird, at day's departing hour
Sings in the sunbeam of the transient shower,
Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while :-
Yet, ah! how much must that poor heart endure
Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!

DOVER CLIFFS.

ON these white cliffs, that calm above the flood
Uplift their shadowing heads, and, at their feet,
Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat,
Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood;
And, whilst the lifted murmur met his ear,
And o'er the distant billows the still eve

Sail'd slow, has thought of all his heart must leave
To-morrow; of the friends he loved most dear;
Of social scenes, from which he wept to part:
But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all
The thoughts that would full fain the past recall,
Soon would he quell the risings of his heart,
And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide-
The world his country, and his God his guide.

As one, who, long by wasting sickness worn,
Weary has watch'd the ling'ring night, and heard,
Heartless, the carol of the matin bird

Salute his lonely porch, now first at morn
Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed;
He the green slope and level meadow views,
Delightful bathed in slow-ascending dews;

Or marks the clouds, that o'er the mountain's head,

In varying forms fantastic wander white ;

Or turns his ear to every random song,
Heard the green river's winding marge along,
The whilst each sense is steep'd in still delight:
With such delight o'er all my heart I feel,

Sweet Hope! thy fragrance pure and healing incense steal!

APRIL.

WHOSE was the gentle voice, that, whispering sweet,
Promised, methought, long days of bliss sincere ?
Soothing it stole on my deluded ear,

Most like soft music, that might sometimes cheat
Thoughts dark and drooping! 'Twas the voice of Hope :
Of love and social scenes it seem'd to speak,
Of truth, of friendship, of affection meek;
That oh! poor friend, might to life's downward slope
Lead us in peace, and bless our latest hours.

Ah me! the prospect sadden'd as she sung;
Loud on my startled ear the death-bell rung;
Chill darkness rapt the pleasurable bow'rs,
Whilst horror, pointing to yon breathless clay,
"No peace be thine," exclaim'd, "away! away!"

MAY.

How shall I meet thee, Summer, wont to fill
My heart with gladness, when thy pleasant tide
First came, and on each coomb's romantic side
Was heard the distant cuckoo's hollow bill?
Fresh flow'rs shall fringe the wild brink of the stream,
As with the song of joyance and of hope
The hedge-rows shall ring loud, and on the slope
The poplars sparkle on the transient beam,
The shrubs and laurels which I love to tend,

Thinking their May-tide fragrance might delight,
With many a peaceful charm, thee, my best friend,

Shall put forth their green shoot, and cheer the sight! But I shall mark their hues with sick'ning eyes, And weep for her who in the cold grave lies!

NETLEY ABBEY.

FALL'N pile! I ask not what has been thy fate;
But when the weak winds, wafted from the main,
Through each rent arch like spirits that complain,
Come hollow to my ear, I meditate

On this world's passing pageant, and the lot

Of those who once full proudly in their prime
And beauteous might have stood, till bow'd by time
Or injury, their early boast forgot,

They may have fall'n like thee: pale and forlorn,
Their brows, besprent with thin hairs, white as snow,
They lift, majestic yet, as they would scorn

This short-lived scene of vanity and woe;
Whilst on their sad looks, smilingly, they bear
The trace of creeping age, and the dim hue of care!

REMEMBRANCE.

I SHALL look back, when on the main,
Back to my native isle,

And almost think I hear again

Thy voice, and view thy smile.

But many days may pass away
Ere I again shall see

Amid the young, the fair, the gay,

One who resembles thee.

Yet when the pensive thought shall dwell
On some ideal maid,

Whom fancy's pencil pictured well,

And touch'd with softest shade:

The imaged form I shall survey,
And, pausing at the view,

Recal thy gentle smile, and say,
"Oh, such a maid I knew!"

Hh

MARY TIGHE was born in Ireland, in the year 1773. Her father was the Rev. William Blachford, who died a few months after his daughter's birth. She was married early to Mr. Tighe, a gentleman of distinguished family in the county of Wexford. A considerable portion of her life was spent at Woodstock, the seat of her brother-in-law,-one of the most beautiful and romantic places in Ireland. Her life was one of more than ordinary trial: her marriage was not a happy one; and she was for many years afflicted with ill health. She died at Woodstock, on the 24th of March, 1810.

From the year 1804 to her death, Mrs. Tighe had been deprived of the use of her limbs; and the poems she composed were dictated to an amanuensis. She was still lovely; and is described as having been, in early life, eminently beautiful. The affection of her brother-in-law-a gentleman of considerable literary taste-and the attentions of his accomplished lady, in some degree atoned for the neglect she experienced from her husband.

"Psyche," the poem upon which mainly depends the reputation of Mrs. Tighe, was printed only for private circulation during the life-time of the writer: it was published after her death, and became exceedingly popular, passing rapidly through several editions. It is written in the Spenserian stanza; and is founded on the allegory of Love and the Soul. The author was aware of the difficulties with which she had to contend, in following the plan of the ancient poets-" the fountains and first-fruits of wisdom"-who their choicest fables

"Wrapt in perplexed allegories ;"

and perhaps would have been amazed at the extent of popularity achieved by her poem. She wrote with but a very remote idea of finding fame beyond her own limited circle. It is but reasonable to suppose, that much of her posthumous reputation was obtained by the sad, yet interesting, history of her life; for her genius can scarcely be considered as of a sufficiently high and original character to overcome the obstacles she herself perceived. The narrative is tedious; and the style, though highly refined, is tamed and encumbered with imagery. The Editor of the volume, in a brief preface to her works, describes her as displaying an "intimate acquaintance with classical literature, and as guided by a taste for real excellence," "as one who has delivered in polished language such sentiments as can tend only to encourage and improve the best sensations of the human heart." Such merit is undoubtedly hers; she affords abundant proof of an amiable and highly cultivated mind; but she can scarcely be classed high among the Poets of her age and country. Among her minor compositions there are several of exceeding delicacy and beauty; that "On Receiving a Branch of Mezereon" was written only a few days prior to her death.

Her poems were produced at a period when proofs of female intellect were rare. The world has since been more fortunate. The Muses are no longer jealous of the Graces. Their alliance has added greater softness and sweetness to previous strength; the female character has shed its influence on the tone of our literature, as well as on that of the domestic circle. The preceding volumes of this Work contained no examples of female genius;-they were sought for earnestly, but were not found. The present contains many. It is both the peculiarity and the glory of our age, that it has kept pace with the advances of masculine intellect, without encroaching on its province. Such an accession to the Muses' train was in every respect desirable and necessary, to fill up a blank in letters, a void in the history of the human mind, or to give the last finishing to the symmetry and beauty of that ancient and much-vaunted edifice, the Temple of Fame.

"Firm Doric pillars found its solid base;

The fair Corinthian crown the higher space:

Thus all below is strength, but all above is grace."

We may avail ourselves of this opportunity to express our regret that the rules to which we are necessarily limited, must preclude from introduction into this volume the names of several other women, who have obtained and merited a large share of popularity. They will readily occur to our readers.