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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!

EDWARD MOXON.

THIS modern classic bookseller is a worthy St. Peter, holding the keys to the Heaven of Poetry. By his enterprise and liberality he has brought BEAUMONT and FLETCHER, BEN JONSON, MASSINGER and WYCHERLEY to the table and shelf of the poor scholar, a benevolent work for which the lovers of wit, sentiment, and verse, the friends of all true humanities, "rise up and call him blessed." Mr. MoxoN is the publisher of ROGERS, WORDSWORTH, CAMPBELL, TALFOURD, TENNYSON, HUNT, and BROWNING. He was the friend of LAMB when living,-" closer than a brother," and death has not ended the sweet labours of friendship. The numerous editions

of "Elia" are frankincense laid on the tomb of a noble spirit. Mr. Moxon, too, has suffered a prosecution for the publication of SHELLEY, and been vindicated in England by the eloquence of TALFOURD; though he has needed no vindication, for his motives are here above the reach of his assailant. If pure sentiment and the cultivation of the heart's best affections needed any introduction to the soul of the reader, they would have it here in Mr. MoxON, the friend of the Muses and their sons. But Mr. MoxON on the score of his own merits may stand "unbonnetted" among his brethren. We quote from the edition of his poems published in 1843.

TO THE MUSE.

FAIREST of virgins, daughter of a God,

That dwellest where man never trod,
Yet unto him such joy dost give,

That through thy aid he still in paradise may live!
Immortal Muse, thy glorious praise to sing,

Could I a thousand voices bring,

They were too few. Who like to thee Can captivate the heart whose soul is melody?

Early thou lead'st me to some gentle hill,

And wakest for me the holy thrill Of birds that greet the welcome morn, Rejoicing on wild wing, through fields of ether borne. Thou paint'st the landscape which I then survey, Perfumest with odours sweet my way, Till I forget this world of wo,

And journey through a land where peerless pleasures flow.

At noon thou bid'st descend a golden shower;
To dream of thee I seek the bower,
And, like a prince of Inde, the shade
Enjoy, by thy blest presence more voluptuous made.
At eve, when twilight like a nun is seen,

Pacing the grove with pensive mien, "Tis then thou comest with most delight; No hour can be compared with thine 'twixt day and night.

"Tis, as it fadeth, like the farewell smile, Which settles on the lips awhile

Of those we love, ere they in death Resign to heaven their souls, to us their latest breath.

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The goodly of old time thou bring'st to view,
And with ancestral pomp canst strew
The unromantic smooth-paced ways
Of these our philosophic but degenerate days.
The flower of chivalry before me stand,

Clad in bright steel, a warlike band;
Among them some who served the Muse,
And at their head the man whom she could naught
refuse.*

Old bards are there! mine eyes in reverence fall
Before their presence, 'neath whose thrall
My young life one sweet dream hath been,
Dwelling on earth in joys ideal and unseen.
Thou makest the precious tear to gush from eyes,
Strangers to nature's sympathies;
Tyrant and slave alike to thee

Have knelt, and solace found in dire adversity.
Through thee the lover sees with frantic pride
His mistress fairer than Troy's bride;
Through the sweet magic of thy art
He glories in his wounds, and hugs the envenom'd
dart.

Sir Philip Sidney.

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 Tran-
quillity.

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, Or cypress waves o'er friends who long have bid adieu.

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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 cloquent ?
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 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.

AH! what is life! a dream within a dream;
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 wildOf knights, of robbers, and of Fairy queens Dwelling in castles mid enchanted scenesThe 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 Phoebus 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.

ΤΟ

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.

MRS. NORTON.

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 eonstitution 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.

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