These may kindle the breasts of the weak to complain,

They only can teach resignation to mine: For far o'er the regions of doubt and of dreaming, The spirit beholds a less perishing span; And bright through the tempest the rainbow is

streaming,

The sign of forgiveness from MAKER to Man!

WEEP NOT FOR HER.

WEEP not for her! Her span was like the sky,
Whose thousand stars shine beautiful and bright,
Like flowers that know not what it is to die,
Like long link'd shadeless months of polar light,
Like music floating o'er a waveless lake,
While echo answers from the flowery brake,
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! She died in early youth,
Ere hope had lost its rich romantic hues,
When human bosoms seem'd the homes of truth,
And earth still gleam'd with beauty's radiant
dews.

Her summer prime waned not to days that freeze,
Her wine of life was not run to the lees:

Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! By fleet or slow decay
It never grieved her bosom's core to mark
The playmates of her childhood wane away,
Her prospects wither, and her hopes grow dark.
Translated by her God with spirit shriven,
She pass'd, as 'twere on smiles, from earth to

heaven:

Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! It was not hers to feel
The miseries that corrode amassing years,
'Gainst dreams of baffled bliss the heart to steel,
To wander sad down age's vale of tears,
As whirl the wither'd leaves from friendship's tree,
And on earth's wintry wold alone to be:
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! She is an angel now,
And treads the sapphire floors of Paradise,
All darkness wiped from her refulgent brow,
Sin, sorrow, suffering, banish'd from her eyes;
Victorious over death, to her appears
The vista'd joys of heaven's eternal years:
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! Her memory is the shrine
Of pleasant thoughts, soft as the scent of flowers,
Calm as on windless eve the sun's decline,

Sweet as the song of birds among the bowers,
Rich as a rainbow with its hues of light,
Pure as the moonshine of an autumn night:
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! There is no cause of wo,
But rather nerve the spirit that it walk
Unshrinking o'er the thorny path below,

And from earth's low defilements keep thee back; So, when a few fleet swerving years have flown, She'll meet thee at heaven's gate-and lead thee on:

Weep not for her!

FLODDEN FIELD.

'Twas on a sultry summer noon,

The sky was blue, the breeze was still, And Nature with the robes of June

Had clothed the slopes of Flodden Hill,As rode we slowly o'er the plain, Mid wayside flowers and sprouting grain; The leaves on every bough seem'd sleeping, And wild bees murmur'd in their mirth, So pleasantly, it seem'd as earth

A jubilee was keeping!

And canst thou be, unto my soul

I said, that dread Northumbrian field, Where war's terrific thunder roll

Above two banded kingdoms peal'd?
From out the forest of his spears
Ardent imagination hears
The crash of Surrey's onward charging;
While curtel-axe and broad-sword gleam
Opposed, a bright, wide, coming stream,
Like Solway's tide enlarging.

Hark to the turmoil and the shout,
The war-cry, and the cannon's boom!
Behold the struggle and the rout,

The broken lance and draggled plume! Borne to the earth, with deadly force, Comes down the horseman and his horse; Round boils the battle like an ocean,

While stripling blithe and veteran stern Pour forth their life-blood on the fern, Amid its fierce commotion!

Mown down like swathes of summer flowers,

Yes! on the cold earth there they lie,
The lords of Scotland's banner'd towers,

The chosen of her chivalry!
Commingled with the vulgar dead,
Perhaps lies many a mitred head;
And thou, the vanguard onwards leading,
Who left the sceptre for the sword,
For battle-field the festal board,

Liest low amid the bleeding!

Yes! here thy life-star knew decline, Though hope, that strove to be deceived, Shaped thy lone course to Palestine,

And what it wish'd full oft believed:An unhewn pillar on the plain Marks out the spot where thou wast slain; There pondering as I stood, and gazing On its gray top, the linnet sang, And, o'er the slopes where conflict rang, The quiet sheep were grazing.

And were the nameless dead unsung,

The patriot and the peasant train, Who like a phalanx round thee clung, To find but death on Flodden Plain? No! many a mother's melting lay Mourn'd o'er the bright flowers wede away; And many a maid, with tears of sorrow,

Whose locks no more were seen to wave, Wept for the beauteous and the brave, Who came not on the morrow!

Her face thou makest a heaven, and her eyes
The glory of those cloudless skies;
They are the planets 'neath whose sway
The willing lover bends on his celestial way.
Thou cheer'st the prisoner in his lonely cell,
The broken spirit knows thee well;
A troop of angels come with thee,

Wisdom, and Hope, calm Thought, and blest Tranquillity.

Ambition blighted seeks thee, and the shade;
Remembrance thee her voice hath made,
At whose sweet call, as to some tale, [to sail.
We, listening, turn our bark 'mong pleasures past

Thou spread'st the canvass, and with gentlest winds
Impell'st the vessel, till she finds
Some genial spot, where bends the yew,

A DREAM.

METHOUGHT My love was dead. Oh, 't was a night
Of dreary weeping, and of bitter wo!
Methought I saw her lovely spirit go
With lingering looks into yon star so bright,
Which then assumed such a beauteous light,

That all the fires in heaven compared with this Were scarce perceptible to my weak sight.

There seem'd henceforth the haven of my bliss; To that I turn'd with fervency of soul, And pray'd that morn might never break again, But o'er me that pure planet still remain. Alas! o'er it my vows had no control. The lone star set: I woke full glad, I deem, To find my sorrow but a lover's dream.

LIFE.

Thou sooth'st the weary and uplift'st the low;
The voice of God thou wert below:

The holy prophets spake through thee, [tree.
And wept to see their harps hang mute on willow-
Where now had been the warlike of old Troy,
Whom Time nor tyrants can destroy,
If the bold Muse had never lent

Her aid to sing her chiefs brave, wise, or eloquent? Who, when the patriot falls 'neath ruthless power, Revives for aye the genial shower;

Whose moisture, like the morning's dews, Keeps fresh the flower of fame-Who but the heavenly Muse?

Thou art the eye of pity, that surveys

Man wandering through life's mystic ways;
His various changes are thy theme,

His loves, his laughs, his tears: like him, thou art a dream.

Forgive, blest Muse, my want of skill to sing

Thy wonderous praise. Oh round me fling The mantle of sweet thought; and strew, As erst, with flowers, the path I pensive still pursue.

LOVE.

THERE is a flower that never changeth hue;
In vain the angry winds its leaves assail;
Triumphant over time, in every vale
It lifts its hopeful head, glistering with dew.
The maiden rears it in her own sweet looks;

The youth conjures it in the summer shade,
Pictures its image, as by murmuring brooks
He flies from scenes that his chaste dreams invade.
The very fields its presence own in spring;

The hills re-echo with a song of gladness; The heavens themselves their store of tribute bring, And in this flower all things renounce their sadness.

O Love! where is the heart that knows not thee? Thou only bloomest everlastingly!

A pilgrimage from peril rarely free;
A bark that sails upon a changing sea,

Now sunshine and now storm; a mountain stream,
Heard, but scarce seen ere to the dark deep gone;
A wild star blazing with unsteady beam,
Yet for a season fair to look upon.
Life is an infant on affection's knee,
A youth now full of hope and transient glee,

In manhood's peerless noon now bright, anon,
A time-worn ruin silver'd o'er with years.
Life is a race where slippery steeps arise,
Where discontent and sorrow are the prize,
And when the goal is won the grave appears.

WALTON.

WALTON! when, weary of the world, I turn
My pensive soul to thee, I soothing find
The meekness of thy plain contented mind
Act like some healing charm. From thee I learn
To sympathize with nature, nor repine

At fortune, who, though lavish of her store,
Too often leaves her favourites richly poor,
Wanting both health and energy divine
Life's blessings to enjoy. Methinks even now
I hear thee 'neath the milk-white scented thorn
Communing with thy pupil, as the morn
Her rosy cheek displays, while streams that flow,
And all that gambol near their rippling source,
Enchanted listen to thy sweet discourse.

SCENES OF CHILDHOOD.

AND do I then behold again the scene,
Where once I sported when a wanton child;
The mead, the church, the streamlet running wild,
With here and there a fairy spot between,
Smiling, as there rude storm had never been?
Alas! how changed are we who once did rove,
Calder, thy then enchanted banks along;

Retiring now to the sequester'd grove,
Now cheerful hearkening to the accustom'd song
That rose at eventide these vales among! [wear;

The charm and hope of youth the green leaves "Tis only man that blossoms and decays, To know no second spring. I thoughtful gaze With dream of years long past, and drop a tear.

SIDNEY.

SIDNEY, thou star of beaming chivalry,

That rose and set 'mid valour's peerless day; Rich ornament of knighthood's milky-way; How much our youth of England owe to thee, Thou model of high learning and meek grace, That realized an image which did find No place before, save in the inventive mind Of hoping man. In thee we proudly trace All that revered Antiquity can show

Of acts heroic that adorn her page, Blending with virtues of a purer age. Upon thy tomb engrafted spirits grow, Where sit the warbling sisters who attend The shade made sacred to the Muses' friend.

SOLACE DERIVED FROM BOOKS. HENCE care, and let me steep my drooping spirit In streams of poesy, or let me steer Imagination's bark 'mong bright scenes, where Mortals immortal fairy-land inherit. Ah me! that there should be so few to merit

The realized hope of him, who deems
In his youth's spring that life is what it seems,
Till sorrows pierce his soul, and storms deter it
From resting there as erst! Ye visions fair,

Of Genius born, to you I turn, and flee
Far from this world's ungenial apathy;

Too blest, if but awhile I captive share
The presence of such beings as engage [less page.
The heart, and burn through Shakspeare's match-

TO A BIRD.

SWEET captive, thou a lesson me hast taught
Excelling any which the schools convey;
Example before precept men obey.
Methinks already I have haply caught
A portion of thy joy. Contentment rare,

For one in dull abode like thine, I trace,
Blended with warblings of such cheerful grace;
And yet without a listening ear to share,
Save mine, thy melody. Thus all day long,
Even as the youthful bard that meditates
In scenes the visionary mind creates,

Thou to some woodland image tunest thy song; A prisoner too to hope, like him, sweet bird, In lonely cell thou sing'st, and sing'st unheard.

A MOTHER SINGING.

HARK, 'tis a mother singing to her child
Those madrigals that used her ears to greet,
When she, an infant like that spring-flower sweet,
Lent her charm'd ears to nurse, or mother mild,
That sang those nursery stories strange and wild-
Of knights, of robbers, and of Fairy queens
Dwelling in castles mid enchanted scenes-
The songs which plain antiquity beguiled.
Or is her theme of him, her lord, whose bark

Is ploughing, 'neath his guidance, Indian seas ;
Or far detain'd by polar skies, that freeze

His glad return? She, tuneful as the lark [smile, That warbling soars, though Phœbus cease to Lifts her soft voice, and sings, though sad the while.

POESY.

DIVINEST Poesy! without thy wings

Life were a burden, and not worth receiving;
Youth fadeth like a dream, care keeps us grieving,

Early we sicken at all pleasure brings.
Thou only art the ever genial maid,
That strew'st with flowers the winter of our way;
Companion meet in city or in shade,

Magician sweet whose wand all things obey;
Thou peoplest with divinities the grove,
Picturest old times, and with creative skill,
Mould'st men and manners to thy heavenly will.
Mistress of sympathy and winning love,

Oh be thou ever with me, with me-wholly, To smile when I am gay, to sigh when melancholy.

TO

AND what was Stella but a haughty dame?
Or Geraldine, whom noble Surrey sought?
Or Sacharissa, she who proudly taught

The courtly Waller statelier verse to frame ? Or Beatrice, whom Dante deified?

Or she of whom all Italy once rung, Compared with thee, who art our age's pride, And the sweet theme of many a poet's tongue ? There is a nobleness that dwells within,

Fairer by far than any outward feature;

A grace, a wit to gentleness akin,

That would subdue the most unloving creature. These beauties rare are thine, most matchless maid, Compared with which, theirs were but beauty's shade.

ROUEN.

BRIGHT was the moon as from thy gates I went,
Majestic Rouen! and the silver Seine
Dimpled with joy, as murmuring to the main,
A pilgrim like myself, her course she bent.
Thou art a city beautiful to see,

Surpassing in magnificence that seat
Of kings, the capital, the gay retreat
Of which "all Europe rings!" Full oft of thee
Will be my future dreams; when far away,

I still shall mingle with thy ancient throng; Shall pace thy marble halls, and gaze among The Gothic splendours of thy once bright day, When the first Francis was thy guest, and thou Thyself didst wear a crown upon thy brow!

PIETY.

METHOUGHT I heard a voice upon me call,
As listless in desponding mood I lay,
Whiling the melancholy hour away,
Mid fears that did my fondest hopes enthral.
'Twas not the trumpet voice of fame I heard,

Nor fortune's, nurse of impotence and care;
Nor yet the moanings deep of fell despair.
But oh! it was the voice of one that stirr'd
In every leaf! Sweet, sweet the accents came,
And stole in pure affection to my heart,
Healing within wounds bleeding 'neath the smart
Of bitterest wo. Up sprang my gladden'd frame
Restored, as henceforth brighter days to see;-
Thy voice it was I heard, meek Piety.

CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH NORTON is a granddaughter of RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN, and the inheritor of his genius. While she was an infant, her father, THOMAS SHERIDAN, sought the renovation of a shattered constitution in the tropical seas, but unsuccessfully, for four years after leaving England he died at the Cape of Good Hope, whence his widow returned home, and, living in seclusion, devoted herself with untiring assiduity to the education of her children, the author of The Dream, another daughter, now the Hon. Mrs. BLACKWOOD, author of the Irish Emigrant's Lament, etc., and a third, now Lady SEYMOUR.

The eldest two of these sisters exhibited remarkable precocity. They rivalled the celebrated Misses DAVIDSON of this country in the earliness and perfection of their mental development. At twelve CAROLINE SHERIDAN wrote verses which even now she would not be ashamed to see in print, and at seventeen she finished The Sorrows of Rosalie, which gave abundant promise of the reputation she has since acquired.

Two years afterward she was married to the Hon. GEORGE CHAPPLE NORTON, a brother to Lord GRANTLEY. Mr. NORTON proposed for Miss SHERIDAN when she was sixteen; but her mother postponed the contract three years, that the daughter might herself be better qualified to fix her choice. In this period she became acquainted with one whose early death alone prevented a union more consonant to her feelings; and when Mr. NORTON renewed his proposal he was accepted. The unhappiness of this union is too well known to be passed over in silence. Ingenuous and earnest as the poetical nature invariably is, trustful, ardent, and reliant upon its own intrinsic worthiness, it is too often regardless of those conventional forms which become both a barrier and a screen to the less pure in heart. Occupying the most enviable position in society, surpassing most of her sex as much in personal beauty as in genius, it were a wonder had she escaped the attacks of envy and malevolence. While Lord MELBOURNE was prime minister, urged on by the political ene

mies of that nobleman, Mr. NORTON instituted a prosecution on a charge involving her fidelity. All the low arts which well-feed attorneys and a malignant prosecutor could devise were put in requisition. Forgery, perjury, the searching scrutiny of private papers, the exhibition of the most thoughtless and trivial incidents and conversations in her history, were resorted to. But all were unavailing. She passed the ordeal with her white robes unsullied by the slightest stain. An acquittal by the jury and the people, however, poorly atoned the injustice of the accusation.

Mrs. NORTON has been styled the BYRON of her sex. Though she resembles that great poet in the energy and mournfulness so often pervading her pages, it would be erroneous to confound her sorrowful craving for sympathy, womanly endurance, resignation, and religious trust, with the refined misanthropy of Childe Harold. She feels intensely, and utters her thoughts with an impassioned energy; but they are not the vapourings of a sickly fancy, nor the morbid workings of undue self-love; they are the strong and healthful action of a noble nature abounding in the wealth of its affections, outraged and trampled upon, and turning from its idols to God when the altar at which it worshipped has been taken away.

Mrs. NORTON now lives in comparative retirement, admired by the world, and idolized by the few admitted to her friendship. Besides the Sorrows of Rosalie, The Undying One, and The Dream, (the last and best of her productions,) she has written many shorter poems of much beauty, which have probably been more widely read than the works of any poetess except Mrs. HEMANS.

The poetry of Mrs. NORTON is often distinguished for a masculine energy, and always for grace and harmony. She has taste, an affluent fancy, and an unusual ease of expression. Her principal fault is diffuseness; she writes herself through, giving us all the progress of her mind and the byplay of her thought. Her recent works are, however, more compressed and carefully finished than those of an earlier date.