POESY.

Oh! I have been thy lover long,
Soul-soothing Poesy;

If 'twas not thou inspired the song,
I still owe much to thee:
And still I feel the cheering balm
Thy heavenly smiles supply,
That keeps my struggling bosom calm
When life's rude storms are high.

Oh! in that sweet romance of life
I loved thee, when a boy,
And ever felt thy gentle strife
Awake each little joy:

To thee was urged each nameless song,
Soul-soothing Poesy;

And as my hopes wax'd warm and strong,
My love was more for thee.

"Twas thou and nature bound, and smiled,
Rude garlands round my brow-

Those dreams that pleased me when a child,
Those hopes that warm me now.
Each year with brighter blooms return'd,
Gay visions danced along,

And, at the sight, my bosom burn'd,
And kindled into song.

Springs came not, as they yearly come
To low and vulgar eyes,

With here and there a flower in bloom,
Green trees, and brighter skies:
Thy fancies flush'd my boyish sight,

And gilt its earliest hours;

And Spring came wrapt in beauty's light,

An angel dropping flowers.

Oh! I have been thy lover long,

Soul-soothing Poesy,

And sung to thee each simple song,

With witching ecstacy,

Of flowers, and things that c aim'd from thee

Of life an equal share,

And whisper'd soft their tales to me

Of pleasure or of care.

With thee, life's errand all perform,

And feel its joy and pain;

Flowers shrink, like me, from blighting storm, And hope for suns again:

The bladed grass, the flower,

Companions seem to be,

the leaf,

That tell their joys of joy and grief,
And think and feel with me.

A spirit speaks in every wind,
And gives the storm its wings;
With thee all nature owns a mind,
And stones are living things;
The simplest weed the Summer gives
Smiles on her as a mother,

And, through the little day it lives,
Owns sister, friend, and brother.

Oh! Poesy, thou heavenly flower,
Though mine a weed may be,
Life feels a sympathising power,
And wakes inspired with thee;
Thy glowing soul's enraptured dreams
To all a beauty give,

While thy impassion'd warmth esteems
The meanest things that live.

Objects of water, earth, or air,
Are pleasing to thy sight;
All live thy sunny smiles to share,
Increasing thy delight;

All nature in thy presence lives

With new creative claims,

And life to all thy fancy gives

That were but shades and names.

Though cheering praise and cold disdain
My humble songs have met,

To visit thee I can't refrain,

Or cease to know thee yet;

Though simple weeds are all I bring,
Soul-soothing Poesy,

They share the sunny smiles of Spring,
Nor are they scorn'd by thee.

THIS highly distinguished authoress in an age of illustrious women, was born at Liverpool, in 1794. Her maiden name was Felicia Dorothea Brown. Her father was a native of Ireland, and her mother of Germany, but descended of Venetian ancestry, and to this latter circumstance Mrs. Hemans sometimes playfully referred, as the source of her enthusiasm for poetry and romance. She married at an early age, and became the mother of five sons; but the union was not a happy one, and a voluntary separation from her husband was the consequence.

Mrs. Hemans, from a very early period of her life, had been an indefatigable scholar; her mind was richly stored with classical images and associations, and a thorough knowledge of the principles of taste. On this account, her earliest compositions exhibited a devotedness to what might be called the Classical School, in which it was thought by her critical friends that she sacrificed too much to fastidiousness of selection, and uniformity and correctness of rhythm and style. But in consequence of her subsequent enthusiasm for Spanish and German literature, and her admiration of the writings of Wordsworth, a change was perceptible in the spirit of her poetry and the style of her versification, the one exhibiting more originality, energy, and freedom, and the other, less polish and studied richness. Thus her Modern Greece, Wallace, Dartmore, Sceptic, Historic Scenes, and subsequent productions, up to the publication of The Forest Sanctuary, evince an exclusive devotedness to classical models, while the lastmentioned work, The Records of Women, Scenes and Hymns of Life, and all her following poems, show the superinduced spirit which she had imbibed from the great masters of Spain and Germany.

As Mrs. Hemans had been distinguished for early application to study, and precociousness of intellectual powers, her career of authorship commenced at the age of thirteen, after which the rich treasures of her genius were showered upon the public with a liberality and constancy that seemed to preclude the necessary efforts of careful study and correction. But a single glance at any of her numerous works would at once preclude this suspicion. Stored though her mind was with the knowledge of ancient and modern languages, and information derived from extensive reading and habits of observation, her writings exhibited only a part of these distinguished acquirements. It was not enough that she knew the subject upon which she wished to exercise her pen: she required also that inspiration which can only arise from the love of it, and thus every theme which she treated became impressed with the characteristics of her own mind, and was the outpouring of her own individual emotions. And who that considers the felicity of her expressions, and rich music of her numbers, would imagine that these could have been the fruits of haste or carelessness?

In consequence of the talents which Mrs. Hemans had indicated in her numerous productions, the most distinguished literary characters of the day sought her acquaintanceship, among whom occur the dissimilar names of Bishop Heber, Shelley, and Sir Walter Scott. A whole host of imitators also started up, not only in England, but America, who, without her genius and endowments, endeavoured to imitate her singularly beautiful style of writing-and we need scarcely add, without success. But notwithstanding her great and continually growing celebrity, no lady, however obscure, and diffident of her own merits, could have been more retired in society. In company, she was reserved and silent, shunning the honours which were courting her acceptance, as well as those opportunities of procuring admiration by the display of her conversational powers, with which she was so eminently endowed. So great was her sensitiveness upon this point, that she never would visit London after her name had acquired the highest celebrity, but preferred the seclusion of her obscure residence at St. Asaph's, in North Wales, or the neighbourhood of Liverpool. During the latter years of her life, she had suffered much from a delicate state of health; and she died in Dublin, on the 16th of May, 1835, tranquillized and cheered in her last moments by those devotional rinciples which breathe such a celestial spirit over the charms of her poetry.

He knelt, the Saviour knelt and pray'd,
When but his Father's eye

Look'd through the lonely garden's shade
On that dread agony;

The Lord of All above, beneath,

Was bow'd with sorrow unto death.

The sun set in a fearful hour,

The stars might well grow dim,

When this mortality had power

So to o'ershadow HIM!

That He who gave man's breath, might know The very depths of human woe.

mind was with the knowledge of ancient and modern languages, and internatum derived from extensive reading and habits of observation, her writings exhibited only a part of these distinguished acquirements. It was not enough that she knew the subject upon which she wished to exercise her pen: she required also that inspiration which can only arise from the love of it, and thus every theme which she treated became impressed with the characteristics of her own mind, and was the outpouring of her own individual emotions. And who that considers the felicity of her expressions, and rich music of her numbers, would imagine that these could have been the fruits of haste or carelessness?

In consequence of the talents which Mrs. Hemans had indicated in her numerous productions, the most distinguished literary characters of the day sought her acquaintanceship, among whom occur the dissimilar names of Bishop Heber, Shelley, and Sir Walter Scott. A whole host of imitators also started up, not only in England, but America, who, without her genius and endowments, endeavoured to imitate her singularly beautiful style of writing-and we need scarcely add, without success. But notwithstanding her great and continually growing celebrity, no lady, however obscure, and diffident of her own merits, could have been more retired in society. In company, she was reserved and silent, shunning the honours which were courting her acceptance, as well as those opportunities of procuring admiration by the display of her conversational powers, with which she was so eminently endowed. So great was her sensitiveness upon this point, that she never would visit London after her name had acquired the highest celebrity, but preferred the seclusion of her obscure residence at St. Asaph's, in North Wales, or the neighbourhood of Liverpool. During the latter years of her life, she had suffered much from a delicate state of health; and she died in Dublin, on the 16th of May, 1835, tranquillized and cheered in her last moments by those devotional | rinciples which breathe such a celestial spirit over the charms of her poetry.