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Weep not for her,-in her spring-time she flew
To that land, where the wings of the soul are unfurl'd,
And now, like a star beyond evening's cold dew,
Looks radiantly down on the tears of this world.
MARY ANNE BROWNE improvised poetry before she was ten years old. She published a volume of poems of remarkable promise before she was thirteen. That promise was amply fulfilled by the productions of her more advanced years, although an untimely death at the age of twenty-two deprived the world of the rich fruits that might have been anticipated from the maturity of her genius. How beautiful is the following:
My heart is wither'd, and my feelings wasted;
They sprung too early, like the tender grass
That by spring-frost is blasted.
But THOU wilt not believe
How very soon my heart-task will be o'er:
My heart, whose feelings never can deceive,
Is wither'd at its core.
I know the blight is there,
And slowly it is spreading in my youth;
And ever and anon some silver hair
Proclaims that this is truth.
And trembles every limb,
As never trembled they in happier years,
And with a mist my eyes are ofttimes dim,
Yet not a mist of tears.
Thou dost not know, when pale
My cheek appears, that to my heart the blood
Hath rush'd like lava, when a sudden gale
Of terror sweeps its flood.
O, from the laughing earth,
And all its glorious things, I could depart,
Nor wish to call one lasting impress forth,
Save in thy precious heart.
Yet come not when the drear
Last hour of life is passing o'er me:
I cannot yield my breath if thou art near,
To bid me live for thee.
But come when I am dead:
No terror shall be pictured on my face;
I shall lie calm on my last mortal bed,
Without one passion's trace.
And come thou to my grave:
Ay, promise that come on some beauteous morn,
When lightly in the breeze the willows wave,
And spring's first flowers are born:
When the rich snowy wreaths of clouds are turn'd
To crimson in the west, when waters heave
As if they lived and burn'd;
When there's a hush upon the heavens and deep,
And when the earth is bathed in starry light,
O, come thou there, and weep.
Weep, yet not bitter tears;
Let them be holy, silent, free from pain,
Think of me as a bird who, many years,
Was in a galling chain;
On the earth's lovely things, and yet, whene'er
It strove to rush away, or fondly raise
Its wing, still bound it there.
And bring sometimes a flower
To scatter on the turf I lie beneath,
And gather it in that beloved bower
That round us used to wreathe.
Thou comest,-at the morn, or eve, or night,
When dewdrops glisten, when the faint bells chime,
Or in the moon's pale light,—
Still keep this thought (for sweet
It was to me when such bright hope was given),
That the dear hour shall come when we shall meet,
Ay, surely meet, in heaven.
TO THE PICTURE OF A DEAD GIRL.
These beautiful stanzas are from the pen of Mr. T. K. HERVEY, published in a volume entitled The Lotus.
THE same-and oh, how beautiful!-the same
As memory meets thee through the mist of years!-
Love's roses on thy cheek, and feeling's flame
Lighting an eye unchanged in all-but tears!
Upon thy sever'd lips the very smile
Remember'd well, the sunlight of my youth;
But gone the shadow that would steal, the while,
To mar its brightness, and to mock its truth !—
Once more I see thee, as I saw thee last,
The lost restored-the vision of the past!
How like to what thou wert-and art not now!
Yet oh, how more resembling what thou art;
There dwells no cloud upon that pictured brow,
As sorrow sits no longer in thy heart;
Gone where its very wishes are at rest,
And all its throbbings hush'd and achings heal'd ;-
gaze, till half I deem thee to my breast,
In thine immortal loveliness reveal'd,
And see thee, as in some permitted dream,
There where thou art what here thou dost but seem!
I loved thee passing well;-thou wert a beam
Of pleasant beauty on this stormy sea,
With just so much of mirth as might redeem
Man from the musings of his misery;
Yet ever pensive,—like a thing from home!
Lovely and lonely as a single star!
But kind and true to me, as thou had'st come
From thine own element so very far,
Only to be a cynosure to eyes
Now sickening at the sunshine of the skies!
It were a crime to weep!-'tis none to kneel,
As now I kneel before this type of thee,
And worship her, who taught my soul to feel
Such worship is no vain idolatry :-
Thou wert my spirit's spirit-and thou art-
Though this be all of thee time hath not reft,
Save the whole thoughts that hang about the heart,
Like wither'd leaves that many storms have left;
I turn from living looks-the cold, the dull,-
To any trace of thee-the lost, the beautiful!
Broken, and bow'd, and wasted with regret,
I gaze, and weep-why do I weep alone?
I would not-would not, if I could-forget,
But I am all remembrance-it hath grown
My very being!-will she never speak?
The lips are parted and the braided hair
Seems as it waved upon her brightening cheek,
And smile, and everything-but breath-are there
Oh, for the voice that I have stay'd to hear,
-Only in dreams,—so many a lonely year!
It will not be ;-away, bright cheat, away!
Cold, for the cold to love!-thy look grows strange;
I want the thousand thoughts that used to play,
Like lights and shadowings in chequer'd change:
That smile! I know thou art not like her, now,-
Within her land,-where'er it be-of light,
She smiles not while a cloud is on my brow :-
When will it pass away-this heavy night!
Oh! will the cool, clear morning never come,
And light me to her, in her spirit's home!
Mr. P. J. BAILEY, of Sheffield, is the author of some very fine dramatic poems, foremost of which is Festus, one of the most truly original compositions in our language. The following passage appears
in a conversation between Festus and a Student concerning poetry, in which the latter, despairing to find a subject not yet exhausted, asks, "What theme remains?' Festus thus answers him:
THYSELF, thy race, thy love,
The faithless and the full of faith in God;
Thy race's destiny, thy sacred love.
Every believer is God's miracle.
Nothing will stand whose staple is not love ;
The love of God, or man, or lovely woman;
The first is scarcely touch'd, the next scarce felt,
The third is desecrated; lift it up,
Redeem it, hallow it, blend the three in one
Great holy work. It shall be read in Heaven
By all the saved of sinners of all time.
Preachers shall point to it, and tell their wards
It is a handful of eternal truth.
Make ye a heartful of it: men shall will
That it be buried with them in their hands.
The young, the gay, the innocent, the brave,
The fair, with soul and body both all love,
Shall run to it with joy; and the old man,
Still hearty in decline, whose happy life
Hath blossom'd downwards, like the purple bell-flower,
Closing the book, shall utter lowlily,
Death, thou art infinite, it is life is little.
Believe thou art inspired, and thou art.
Look at the bard and others; never heed
The petty hints of envy. If a fault
It be in bard, to deem himself inspired,
'Tis one which hath had many followers
He is wont to make, unite,
Believe; the world to part, and doubt, and narrow.
That he believes, he utters. What the world
Utters, it trusts not. But the time may come
When all, along with those who seek to raise
Men's minds, and have enough of pain, without
Suffering from envy, may be God inspired
To utter truth, and feel like love for men.
Poets are henceforth the world's teachers. Still
The world is all in sects, which makes one loathe it.