And on her lips there played a smile, As lights in some cathedral aisle The features of a saint. "The soil is barren,—the farm is old," His heart within him was at strife For he knew whose passions gave her life, But the voice of nature was too weak; Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek, The Slaver led her from the door, He led her by the hand, To be his slave and paramour Once more, and where the poet preaches the most solemn of sermons; for he speaks of "The Witnesses" who cry from unknown graves. In Ocean's wide domains, With skackled feet and hands. Beyond the fall of dews, Deeper than plummet lies, There the black Slave-ship swims, These are the bones of Slaves ; By the oak-shadowed well she stood, To bind the curls whose golden flood She told me of the road I missed-- At parting waved the hand she kissed, But never smiled-though prompt and warm The tribute that so fair a form From minstrel ever raises. The gladness murmured to her cheek, Unfolded not its roses That bluest morn will never break That in her eye reposes. Some gentle wo, with dovelike wings, In vain, with venial art, to sound I guessed its golden items o'er And closed them with-a lover. It failed for once-that final word- She felt and thanked the artifice, But no-she said (the while her face Her words made silvery stop-for lo, As though that mirth some feeling jarred, Murmured farewell, and through the dell With breeze-tossed locks and gleaming feet O'er the dim lawns, like rushing fawns, Came the fair Water-fetchers; VOL. II. (1843) NO. I. H And there, while round that well's gray oak, Fair Judith Lee, from guileless lips Of humble lot-the legends wild, On those who see beneath their touch "NEVER IN LIFE TO PROSPER MORE!" Ill's viewless train-her days to pain At times she deemed the coming wo Till every tie that twined her low, Upon the lap of Nature Her once-loved head unwatched, unknown, E'en her young heart's instinctive want She checked with cold reproving: And Hope's whole priceless freight go down. So pined that gracious form away, I've seen since then the churchyard nook The wild ash loves it, and a brook Through emerald mosses crseping: A low sweet mass is singing, Poor girl!-I've thought, as there reclined, Thy tale to meditative mind Once shatter inborn Truth divine, The soul's transparent mirror, Where Heaven's reflection loved to shine, Terror and Wo;-Faith's holy face In lavish sunshine o'er us, That Broken Glass distorts them all, Whose fragments glare before us. Mr. Simmons states that the superstition of whoever breaks a looking-glass is destined to misfortune prevails widely in Ireland, and is not unknown in certain districts of England. Be it entertained where it may, our poet has given it with a touching effect, there being the simplicity of nature in the story, and that felicitous expression that shapes itself to apt thought. And now a word or two about the merits of the Legends, Lyrics, and Poems, most of which have appeared in the pages of Blackwood's Magazine. Perhaps, indeed, a more expressive recommendation could not be bestowed, than the mention of this circumstance. True, the occasional form and character of the pieces preclude the idea of elaborate construction and extended power. But we meet in them with unmistakeable tokens of right feeling well cultured,-of poetical fancy tastefully attuned, both in regard to spirit and versification. We should say too that the author has an elastic, pliable genius, that readily accommodates itself to any theme and style; his resources in respect of rhythm, imagery, and emotion being various and natural. There is at times a common-place character about his subjects, and he seems to have a capacity for imitation, when, for example, he sets his homage upon Byron. But we think there are manifest proofs in |