prefer to quote from these posthumous poems, written from her very heart of hearts, in which passion seems to burst unconsciously into poetry. LOVE'S MEMORY. I wove a wreath, 'twas fresh and fair, And the blue harebell flowers were there ;- I took my lute; methought its strain And down I laid the restless lute, And turned me to the poet's page; But in the poet's work I find I wandered midst the silent wood, And sought the greenest, coolest glade, And strove to lead my heart to drink At the deep founts of wandering thought, Between our souls and bodies wrought; Yet, all the while, thine image bright, Casting through dreamy thoughts its light, And every leaf and every tree Seemed quivering with beams of thee. Beloved! I will strive no more! Thine image, in vice-regal power, Shall ruling sit all memories o'er, Throned in my heart, until the hour The next poem is also written in a hopeful mood :— Fear not, beloved, though clouds may lower, Faith's holy star hath still a power That may the deepest midnight sway. Fear not! I take a prophet's tone, Our love can neither wane nor set; What though long anxious years have passed, Whose beam upon our path shall shine. Ay, by the wandering birds, that find By summer suns that brightly rise, Though erst in mournful tears they set; We shall be happy yet! It is really pleasant to know that, although the bliss was short in duration, yet the vows of that faithful heart were heard. Here is one other love note: Another year is dying fast, A chequered year of joy and woe, Not that my heart can be estranged, But I have learnt to love thee more. Yes, to mine ear thine accents all, K* Thy coming step more musical, Their disappointments we have proved, A temperament so framed must, of necessity, take pleasure in the beauties of Nature. I must make room for a few stanzas of her ANTICIPATIONS OF THE COUNTRY. The summer sunshine falls O'er the hot vistas of the crowded town, With beauty and with glory not their own; The summer skies are bright, A canopy of peace above the strife Of human hearts that fight And struggle on the battle plain of life. Summers have passed away Since I a dweller 'mid this scene became, And still their earliest ray Hath sent a thirsty longing through my frame; In the green woodlands, in the pastures fair, And not as travelers are; My heart hath yearned to be a dweller there. It comes, it comes at last; All I have panted for is near me now; Ere many hours have past, A cool untroubled breeze shall fan my brow. The faint continuous hum That hath been round me till 'twas scarcely heard, No more shall near me come To mar the melodies of bee or bird. No more the sultry street Shall echo to my quick, uneasy tread; To where the turf in daisied pride is spread. No more the whirling wheel, The tramping horses, and the people's shout;- The pleasant quiet circling me about. Blessed to go away, To where the wild-flower blooms and wood-bird sings, And lightly o'er the spray The purple vetch its wreathing garland flings. One more I must quote, of a still different strain. It was left without a title, a mere fragment among her papers; but the editor of the "Dublin University Magazine" has called it THE GIFTED. Oh, woe for those whose dearest themes To nothing in this earthly sphere; Where nothing mortal may appear; Such his perplexing grief who seeks In vain their sympathy implores. Without a guiding star above, With an unmeasured deep before. The world doth scorn them, gibe, condemn;— Surely this was a very remarkable woman; and these poems (there are many more of nearly equal beauty) should not be left to the perishable record of a magazine. Her earliest publications were, as I have said, of little worth; but enough of the highest merit might be collected to form an enduring memorial of her genius and her virtues. XVIII. AMERICAN ORATORS. DANIEL WEBSTER. ONE of the greatest, if not the very greatest, of the living orators of America, is, beyond all manner of doubt, Daniel Webster. That he is also celebrated as a lawyer and a statesman, is a matter of course in that practical country, where even so high a gift as that of eloquence is brought to bear on the fortunes of individuals and the prosperity of the commonwealth,—no idle pilaster placed for ornament, but a solid column aiding to support the building. A column indeed, stately and graceful with its Corinthian capital, gives no bad idea of Mr. Webster; of his tall and muscular person, his massive features, noble head, and the general expression of placid strength by which he is distinguished. This is a mere fanciful comparison; but Sir Augustus Callcott's fine figure of Columbus has been reckoned very like him; a resemblance that must have been fortuitous, since the picture was painted before the artist had even seen the celebrated orator. When in England some ten or twelve years ago, Mr. Webster's calm manner of speaking excited much admiration and perhaps a little surprise, as contrasted with the astounding and somewhat rough rapidity of progress which is the chief characteristic of his native land. And yet that calmness of manner was just what might be expected from a countryman of Washington, earnest, thoughtful, weighty, wise. No visitor to London ever left behind him pleasanter recollections, and I hope that the good impression was reciprocal. Every body was delighted with his geniality and taste; and he could hardly fail to like the people who so heartily liked him. Among our cities and our scenery he admired that most which was most worthy of admiration ; preferring, in common with many of the most gifted of his coun |