dered irresistibly fascinating to the youthful heart. She has always held honour far above life, and given only too powerful a charm to the scene of combat when ennobled by principle.

The vivid sense of beauty which characterised the mental constitution of this highly endowed woman, was a gift productive of purer good. It is perhaps, in all instances of genius, the compensating power, by which a more than ordinary susceptibility of pain is ba lanced by a constant source of exquisite and unmingled delight. Few, however, even of the poetic temperament, seem to have been so intensely alive to this peculiar enjoyment as the individual whose character we have been contemplating. It formed the perpetual solace of her spirit, refreshed her nature when exhausted with toil; renovated her powers when inclined to flag from the enfeebling effects of sickness; and awakened all the slumbering zephyrs of fancy, summoned forth the rushing streams of emotion, and shed the restoring dews which beautify the Eden of the heart.

It was this healing and reviving virtue, which she delighted to recognize in the flowers, which she almost worshipped. It was their power to touch the heart, rather than the eye, on which she loved to dwell. To her, all external beauty was emblematic-significant of the affections. Her's was "the perpetual hymn within the soul."

She dwelt, she walked abroad, in a world of beauty, in which there was nothing more beautiful than the capacity itself for love-evolv. ing at once her own peculiar power, that of depicting loveliness, and illustrating the great moral truth, that, as from the coarse and crude earth, aided by changing seasons, and fallen leaves, and decaying weeds, spring up the perfect beauty and fragrance of the rose; so, amid crumbling hopes, and darkening cares, and soiling grief, blooms in the heart the celestial element of love.

When we advert to the experience of her life, and, opening the volume of her poetry, find every page but a varied tribute to the power of the beautiful, we rejoice in the assurance that there is, within, as well as without the human heart, a loveliness to which no sorrow can wholly dim the mental eye.

Beauty of sentiment-the charm of ideal beauty—was the crown. ing excellence of her poetry. It hovers over all her verse, and flits through all its imagery, like the presence of a visiting angel. Now, it is man dying the patriot's death on the well-fought field; now woman, hallowing the privacy of home, "brooding o'er that sole spot of earth," "watching the stars out by the bed of pain," or dying a martyr to the affections. In all its forms, it is human vir. tue in its most exalted attitudes, but softened by a touch of tender.

ness and grace. Her portraits of humanity win not only our admiration, but our love.

The private life and character of this amiable woman were beau. tifully accordant with her poetic genius. We find her exciting but little interest in the mind of casual or superficial observers. Her gentle and unassuming spirit delighted not in display. She withdrew into an inner life, where kindred minds only could find her. To her, homage had no unction. She was a sincere single-minded being, seeking rest in the bosom of a little circle, whose intercourse was the life of her affections-on whom, indeed, she was perhaps too dependent for her happiness. True to her own feminine nature, she staked no part of her happiness on observation or applause. The sympathy or approbation of a friend weighed infinitely more with her than the voice of public encomium.

Often, when the most flattering demonstrations were pouring in upon her, was her mind occupied with nothing but her maternal anxiety for her family. Need we wonder that the sounds of eulogy were unheeded, while the solicitations of affections were so importu. nate? The entire simplicity of her character, as well as the deep and trying nature of her experience, preserved her from all perversion.

Yet she was not one whose spirit would effloresce under suffering. She was naturally buoyant and light-hearted, and prone to innocent mirth. Amidst her children, or with intimate friends, her fresh heart would break forth in many a sportive sally. Her poetry, in. deed, though generally of a grave and deeply serious tone, indicates, not unfrequently, how earnestly she sympathised with the glee of the fireside.

Another natural and beautiful trait of Mrs. Hemans, was her tenderness as a woman-not as a wife or a mother only-but as a true hearted, sympathising woman. To her every condition of life was sacred, because it was the lot of humanity. How touchingly she speaks of the humble poor! Her charities have no tinge of affectation; for she dwells fully as often on the natural happiness in which poverty is rich, as she does on the privations or pains with which it has also to do.

Her sympathy with the appropriate feelings of her own sex, is purifying and ennobling in its tendency. She justly makes woman an heroic being, to whom magnanimity-self-sacrificing greatness of soul-is as natural as to man, though working in a more sequestered sphere. But how indescribably true, how deeply affecting, are her delineations of the sufferings and the joys of the female heart! Some of these constitute the most beautiful passages of the

kind, in the whole range of English literature, and must prove as lasting as the language.

Her tendencies to the romantic and the ideal, were, perhaps, too strong for her own happiness; as these qualities are unavoidably attended by the sense of disappointment which ever hangs over finite prospects, and can find no proper scope but in those indefi nite aspirations, which, after all, are the truest as well as the loftiest happiness of our present being. The dispositions to which we al lude are certainly not the most useful to an unassisted female, struggling with difficulties, and standing in need of enterprise and tact to help her through the world.

It is true, also, that romance and ideality, if not balanced by action, incline the mind to dwell upon, if not to magnify, its sufferings a result which identifies itself with poetic melancholy, and leads to monotony and feebleness of expression.

We can hardly doubt, that had Mrs. Hemans accustomed herself, in early life, to habits such as the patriarch Wordsworth took it for granted that she, in common with womankind, possessed-I allude to the memorable occasion of the scales, which put her upon her good looks* her mind would have had an agreeable relief from the pressure of excessive feeling, and a more uniform and healthful cheerfulness. Or, perhaps, still better for her, could she, like Mrs. Siddons, have had recourse to the occupation of modelling, by which she might have dissipated the shadows of grief and care, in an exercise which should give play to the ideal in a varied form, and call on the hand to minister to the mind by realizing its creations. Had she possessed such a resource, even as a variety with which to intersperse the practice of music, of which she was so fond, and in which she so excelled, (I mean in that skill which flows from the heart rather than the head,) but which, perhaps uncon. sciously, tended to excite rather than allay the morbid activity of the heart-had she had such an aid at command, her hours might often have flown more tranquilly and more cheerfully.

There can be no doubt that the incessant activity of the brain,

Imagine, my dear - a bridal present made by Mr. Wordsworth to a young lady in whom he is much interested-a poet's daughter, too! You will be thinking of a brooch in the shape of a lyre, or a butterfly-shaded aigrette, or a forget-me-not, or some such small gear-nothing of the sort; but a good, handsome, substantial, useful-looking pair of scales, to hang up in her store-room! For you must be aware, my dear Mrs. Hemans,' said he to me very gravely, how necessary it is occasionally for every lady to see things weighed herself." 'Poveretta me!' I looked as good as I could; and, happily for me, the poetic eyes are not very clear-sighted, so that I believe no suspicion derogatory to my notability of character has yet flashed upon the mighty master's mind: indeed, I told him that I looked upon scales as particularly graceful things, and had great thoughts of having my picture taken with a pair in my hand."-Letter from 'Dove Nest,' Ambleside.

which the frequency of her compositions required, added to the evil of organic irritation; and that every means of diverting the attention and relaxing the mind which could possibly be found, would, under such circumstances, have been a benefit.

But why was this oppressive frequency of composition requisite? Is it possible, we ask in astonishment, that these beautiful productions-most of which are master-pieces in their kind—were not deemed worthy of a compensation adequate to the wants of their author and her children? Could a great and generous nation, which, through its multiplied channels of mind, was daily imbibing the ex. quisite effusions of her's, permit one whose genius reflected so much beauty on its language to feel the cramping influence of inadequate means? Alas! it is too true. Whilst

"The nightingale was showering

Her own heart's life-drops on the burning lay

And pour'd her strength, but not her grief away."

the listeners allowed her to perish in her song.

Why should such a woman have had to struggle with circumstances; to have no permanent abode; to strive, without success, to secure for her children such an education as she wished them to receive?

We can listen to no answer drawn from "the doctrine of labour and wages, demand and supply." Such an answer is an insult to common feeling. Where were the wives, the mothers, and the sisters of England, when this noble-minded woman was suffered to leave her native country in quest of subsistence?

Had she been an Italian, princes would have vied to cherish her, and the very populace to crown her with befitting garlands. So much for "matter-of-fact" communities, and their boasted justice. The subjects which Mrs. Hemans delighted to select, are strikingly indicative of her own character. They are all beautiful excerpts from the books of nature and life. In her unrivalled pictures of mountains, sea, and forest, we trace the associations of her early life, and the moulding power of scenery over the susceptible spirit of childhood. The varying tones of the wind were to her an entrancing music; and we read much of her subsequent history in the daring custom of her juvenile years, of venturing forth, in the darkness of night, for the romantic luxury of a solitary bath in the surf.

But it was not Nature's grander features only that attracted her. Her ear was open to every whisper amid the leaves, to the silken sound of the bending grass, to the peculiar melody of every bird, and to all the modulations of the ever-shifting voice of streams. She had an eye for the venerable majesty of the forest-oak; but she

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delighted more in the fragile beauty of the wild flowers, and was deeply versed in all the poesy of their natural language. What a sympathy was her's with the free, joyous, and musical life of the birds!

We have spoken of her noble and affecting delineations of humanity, her admiration of the lofty in man, and of the tender and gentle in woman. But how touching is her recognition of childhood! She is alive to all its buoyancy of soul, its meteoric flashes of thought, its angelic truth and loveliness, and its overflowing fullness of affection.

History, as the great book of the heart, she delighted to study; and many are the beautiful garlands which she suspended in the temple of Clio. The romance of history was her favourite theme; but the passages which she loved to recite were always those which bodied forth some trait of noble excellence, or of humble worth. The volume of life, to her, ever opened at the moral.

Sculpture and music were her favourites among the arts. The noble simplicity of the former, together with its inseparable association with the idea of death, or rather of "life in death," appealed to all her native tendencies of feeling; and, by a dim but deep-felt analogy, to her experience of disappointment and overclouding grief. But music, the pliant voice of the heart-so true to all its tones, so mysteriously powerful in all its moods-was the art in which her poetic genius lived and moved, beyond the sphere of song. It was here that her spirit found its quickest, truest response. The most ecstatic thrill of joyous melody has its touch of pathos, into which it seems every moment about to dissolve. To the experience of her whose nature we are contemplating, the music of life was never without its under-tone of sadness; and if she indulged this strain to excess, she was, in that very thing, true to herself. If her verse is too uniformly plaintive, let us not forget the cause.

The language in which Mrs. Hemans loved to invest her thoughts, is also highly characteristic of her habits of feeling. It is by no means feeble; yet we instantly recognise it as the utterance of woman. It is always graceful, and tender, and persuasive. It lacks neither force nor earnestness, but it is always gentle and subdued in its tone; and wins upon the soul, as its exquisite melody does upon the ear, by the mood of feeling which it insensibly creates. Had it blended more of the Promethean fire with its feminine softness, it would have formed a perfect model of expression, emanating from the mind of a female. But, in demanding such a combination, we are asking for one which does not appear in ages, and, in fact, verges on impossibility.

The perfect melody of verse by which this exquisite lyrist was