Oft see thy form, its mournful beauty shrouded By that deep wretchedness the lonely know: Conned by unwilling lips, with listless air; Hoarding thy means, lest future need might ask More than the widow's pittance then could spare. Hidden, forgotten by the great and gay, Enduring sorrow, not by fits and starts, But the long self-denial, day by day, Alone amidst thy brood of careless hearts! Striving to guide, to teach, or to restrain, The young rebellious spirits crowding round, Who saw not, knew not, felt not for thy pain, And could not comfort-yet had power to wound! Ah! how my selfish heart, which since hath grown Familiar with deep trials of its own, With riper judgment looking to the past, Stamps with remorse each wasted hour of time, SONNET-TO MY BOOKS. Silent companions of the lonely hour, Refresh my mind with many a tranquil thought, My native language spoke in friendly tone, And with a sort of welcome I shall dwell On these, my unripe musings, told so well. SONNET-THE WEAVER. Little they think, the giddy and the vain, Wandering at pleasure 'neath the shady trees, While the light glossy silk or rustling train Shines in the sun or flutters in the breeze, How the sick weaver plies the incessant loom, Crossing in silence the perplexing thread, Pent in the confines of one narrow room, Where droops complainingly his cheerless head: Little they think with what dull anxious eyes, Nor by what nerveless, thin, and trembling hands, The devious mingling of those various dyes Were wrought to answer Luxury's commands: But the day cometh when the tired shall rest Where weary Lazarus leans his head on Abraham's breast! COMMON BLESSINGS. Those "common blessings!" In this chequered scene Is it, in truth, a privilege so mean To wander with free footsteps o'er the sod, They who have rarest joy, know Joy's true measure; To hide the sunset and the silver night; While humbler hearts, when care no longer gnaws, And some rare holiday permits delight, Lingering, with love would watch that earth-enchanting sight. THE PRISON CHAPLAIN. I saw one man, armed simply with God's Word, Sink through the bosom of the valley clod, So their hearts opened to the wholesome pain, And hundreds knelt upon the flowery sod, One good man's earnest prayer the link 'twixt them and God. Is still before me: there the Mother bows, Of holy import. There, the kindly man, Whose one weak vice went near to bid him lose Abjures the evil course which first he blindly ran. Round a young sister who deserves no blame; Will he not, too, forgive, and bless her, ere she rise? ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. THE facts in the life of ELIZABEth Barrett BROWNING, one of the most distinguished of the female poets of England, which have come to our know. ledge, are very few. Up to her marriage with Robert Browning (himself no mean poet), in November, 1846, she went very little into society. Since that time she has resided with her husband in Florence, and is now (1851) about forty years of age. Mrs. Browning's publications are as follows: Essay on Mind, a Poem;" "Prometheus Bound, and Miscellaneous Poems;" "The Seraphim, and other Poems:" "Collected Poems," in two volumes; "A Drama of Exile, and other Poems," two volumes. Mrs. Browning has been styled "the learned poetess of the day, familiar with Homer and Eschylus, and Sophocles, and to the musings of Tempe she has added the inspirations of Christianity." This is readily granted, and yet we cannot say that her poetry, as a whole, deeply interests us. With the exception of some few pieces, it takes no permanent hold upon the heart, simply because it is addressed more to the reason than to the feelings or affections. The following, we think, are some of her best pieces-pieces of the most simplicity and feeling, if they do not, so well as some others, illustrate her general style. THE PET-NAME. I have a name, a little name, Though I write books, it will be read And afterwards, when I am dead, Whoever chanceth it to call, May chance your smile to win ;- My brother gave that name to me No shade was on us then, save one And through the word our laugh did run Nay, do not smile! I hear in it I hear the birthday's noisy bliss, And voices-which to name me, aye To some I never more can say An answer, till God wipes away In heaven these drops of weeping! My name to me a sadness wears- Sweet memories left behind! Now God be thanked for years enwrought Now God be thanked for every thought Earth's guerdon of regret! Earth may embitter, not remove, The love divinely given: And e'en that mortal grief shall prove The immortality of love, And lead us nearer Heaven! THE LADY'S YES. "Yes!" I answered you last night; Will not look the same by day. When the tabors played their best, Call me false, or call me free- Yet the sin is on us both Time to dance is not to woo- Learn to win a lady's faith Lead her from the festive boards, By your truth she shall be true- VICTORIA'S TEARS.1 O maiden! heir of kings! The majesty of Death has swept All other from his face! 1 When Queen Victoria was informed of her accession to the throne on the death of her uncle, she was so affected with the consciousness of the heavy responsibilities which had in a moment fallen upon her, that she wept. |