THIS accomplished lady, who has written such beautiful and touching poetry, was born of a family in which genius may be said to be hereditary, being granddaughter to the celebrated Richard Brinsley Sheridan. Having lost her father at an early period of life, the education of Caroline, the future poetess, was chiefly conducted by her mother, who devoted herself to the happiness of her children with a zeal and affection, of which none but a woman and a mother can be susceptible. Her cares were nobly repaid by the genius and accomplishments of her daughters, and especially of the subject of this notice; and such was their early proficiency, that Caroline and her sister, before the age of twelve, had filled two manuscript volumes with their verses. As Mrs. Sheridan, how ever, was a mother who studied the solid happiness rather than the celebrity of her children, she kept works of fiction carefully out of their way, and rather discouraged than promoted these efforts of genius; so that when Mrs. Norton published her poem, entitled The Undying One, she had read fewer novels and romances than most young people of her age. At the age of nineteen, Miss Sheridan became the Honourable Mrs. Norton, by her marriage with the brother of Lord Grantley; but the infelicity of this union, and the unfortunate results, are too well known to require further mention. Of her poetry, it is almost impossible to speak in terms of sufficient commendation. It is not enough to say, that it possesses all the elegance and tenderness which are to be expected from a female pen; it also exhibits, with these qualities, a strength of thought, and a depth of feeling, which are generally looked for in the other sex only. As the charms of intellectual exertion, next to the duties of religion, form the chief solaces of the afflicted and persecuted, we trust that a still brighter literary career than the past is to be fulfilled by the future productions of Mrs. Norton. WOMAN'S DEVOTEDNESS. And be not thou cast down, because thy lot Still from his birth his cradled bed she tends, With years of sorrow for an hour of joy; Too oft forgot 'midst Pleasure's circling wiles, Or only valued for her rosy smiles—) That, in the frank and generous heart of man, The place she holds accords with Heaven's high plan; Still, if from wandering sin reclaim'd at all, He sees in her the angel of recall; Still, in the sad and serious hours of life, From The Dream. RECOLLECTIONS. Do you remember all the sunny places, That gather'd round the hearth in wintry weather? In summer evenings round the open door Kind looks, kind hearts, kind words, and tender greetings, And clasping hands whose pulses beat no more? Do you remember them? Do you remember all the merry laughter; Do you remember them? Do you remember when we first departed From all the old companions who were round us, And talk'd with smiles of all the links which bound us? And after, when our footsteps were returning, With unfelt weariness, o'er hill and plain; How our young hearts kept boiling up, and burning, To think how soon we'd be at home again: Do you remember this? Do How we thought less of being famed in story, Do you remember this? Do you remember when no sound 'woke gladly, For we have nothing left but one another; Yet where they went, old playmate, we shall go— Let us remember this. WOMAN'S COURAGE. Warriors and statesmen have their meed of praise, But the long sacrifice of woman's days Passes without a thought-without a word; And many a holy struggle for the sake Of duties sternly, faithfully fulfill'd— For which the anxious mind must watch and wake, And leaves no memory and no trace behind! Yet, it may be, more lofty courage dwells In one meek heart which braves an adverse fate, Than his, whose ardent soul indignant swells Warm'd by the fight, or cheer'd through high debate: Answer, ye graves, whose suicidal gloom These were the strokes which sent your victims there. EVENING. Oh! dear to him, to all, since first the flowers Heard the low breeze along the branches play, As things too sacred for this fallen star. From The Dream. MOSES AMONG THE BULRUSHES. When the mournful Jewish mother She knew not what the future Should bring the sorely tried: No! in terror wildly flying, She hurried on her path; Of woman's helpless wrath; Of that wrath so blent with anguish, When we seek to shield from ill Those feeble little creatures Who seem more helpless still! Ah! no doubt, in such an hour, The more she loved her child; And that fragile ark of hope; And the cold reeds bent beneath it- She was spared the bitter sorrow Those whom man had forced apart! |