Your old is ever new; perpetual youth Are feebleness, not strength; are loss, not gain; The phantom barque ploughs the broad sea in vain. If thou hast aught to say, or small or great, Are but man's poor attempts to imitate The day of Delphic oracles is past; All mimic wisdom is a broken reed; The gorgeous mountain-mist rolls up at last, Clouds quench no thirst, and flowers no hunger feed. MRS. NORTON, 1808 CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH SHERIDAN, the granddaughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, early showed that she inherited the genius of her celebrated ancestor, and in her seventeenth year composed her poem, The Sorrows of Rosalie. Bereaved by death," as it has been said, "of one to whom she had given her heart, she became, in an unpropitious hour, the wife of the Hon. George Chappel Norton." The union proved a most unhappy one, and was dissolved in 1840, Mrs. Norton having been for many years the object of suspicion and persecution of the most mortifying and painful character. That her husband's treatment of her was unjustifiable, no one acquainted with the history of this unfortunate union for a moment doubts; but that in such cases the fault is all on one side, the world rarely, if ever, believes. It is certainly much in Mrs. Norton's favor that she has not forfeited the confidence of her most intimate friends, and that in the darkest hour of her persecution she enjoyed the esteem of some of the first personages in England. Mrs. Norton's next work was a poem founded on the ancient legend of the "Wandering Jew," which she termed The Undying One. A third volume appeared from her pen in 1840, entitled The Dream, and other Poems. These have given her a very high rank among the female poets of England. The Quarterly Review says that "she is the Byron of our modern poetesses. She has very much of that intense personal passion by which Byron's poetry is distinguished from the larger grasp and deeper communion with man and nature of Wordsworth. She has also Byron's beautiful intervals of tenderness, his strong practical thought, and his forceful expression. It is not an artificial imitation, but a natural parallel." For the honor of the sex, I hope the "natural parallel" cannot be carried any further. Indeed, it cannot; for, in marked contrast to some of Byron's poetry, the moral tone of all that Mrs. Norton has written is pure and elevated. Her poetic powers, naturally of a high order, have been greatly cherished and improved by education and culture, and by a careful study of the best models. The following beautiful verses are addressed by Mrs. Norton to her to whom she has dedicated her poems: TO THE DUCHESS OF SUTHERLAND, Once more, my harp! once more, although I thought A wandering dream thy gentle chords have wrought, I dedicate the lay. Ah! never bard, In days when poverty was twin with song, Nor wandering harper, lonely and ill-starr'd, Cheer'd by some castle's chief, and harbor'd long; Not Scott's "Last Minstrel," in his trembling lays, Woke with a warmer heart the earnest meed of praise: For easy are the alms the rich man spares To sons of Genius, by misfortune bent; But thou gav'st me, what woman seldom dares, Belief in spite of many a cold dissent When, slander'd and malign'd, I stood apart From those whose bounded power hath wrung, not crush'd, my heart. Thou, then, when cowards lied away my name, And some, who might have battled for my sake, Stood off in doubt to see what turn the world would take, Thou gav'st me that the poor do give the poor, Kind words, and holy wishes, and true tears; The loved, the near of kin could do no more; Who changed not with the gloom of varying years, But clung the closer when I stood forlorn, And blunted Slander's dart with their indignant scorn. For they who credit crime are they who feel Their own hearts weak to unresisted sin; Memory, not judgment, prompts the thoughts which steal And tales of broken truth are still believed Most readily by those who have themselves deceived. But like a white swan down a troubled stream, And mar the freshness of her snowy wing,- Thy pale and pearly cheek was never made To crimson with a faint false-hearted shame; Thou didst not shrink,-of bitter tongues afraid, Who hunt in packs the object of their blame; To thee the sad denial still held true, For from thine own good thoughts thy heart its merc And though my faint and tributary rhymes Add nothing to the glory of thy day, Yet every poet hopes that after-times Shall set some value on his votive lay; And I would fain one gentle deed record, Among the many such with which thy life is stored. So when these lines, made in a mournful hour, SONNET, TO MY BOOKS. Silent companions of the lonely hour, Refresh my mind with many a tranquil thought, SONNET,-THE WEAVER. Little they think, the giddy and the vain, Where droops complainingly his cheerless head: Little they think with what dull anxious eyes, Were wrought to answer Luxury's commands: Where weary Lazarus leans his head on Abraham's breast! COMMON BLESSINGS. Those common blessings"! In this checker'd scene To wander with free footsteps o'er the sod, They who have rarest joy, know Joy's true measure; To hide the sunset and the silver night; While humbler hearts, when care no longer gnaws, And some rare holiday permits delight, Lingering, with love would watch that earth-enchanting sight. HOPE, DESPAIR. Is then Despair the end of all our woe? Far off the angel voices answer, No! Devils despair, for they believe and tremble; But man believes and hopes. Our griefs resemble Each other but in this:-Grief comes from heaven; Each wonders at the sorrows of his lot, His neighbor's sufferings presently forgot, Not only in grief's kind, but its degree. God grants to some all joys for their possession; While some toil on, outside those bounds of blessing, Where hearts were heavy, and where eyes were dim, RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES, 1809 RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES, now Lord Houghton, was born in Yorkshire, in the year 1809. After graduating at Cambridge, he travelled for some time on the Continent, and, on his return to England, was elected a member of Parliament for the borough of Pontefract, which he represented for many years! His poetical works consist of Poems, Legendary and Historical; Poems of Many Years; Memorials of Many Scenes; Memorials of a Tour in Greece; Poetry for the People; and Palm Leaves (1844). The last of these was written during a tour through Egypt and the Levant, and is "an attempt to introduce to the people of England the manners of thought and the habits of the East." A volume of Selections from his Poetical Works was published by Murray in 1863. As a poet, Mr. Milnes possesses very considerable elegance and taste: about all his productions there is an artist-like finish, and his ear is finely attuned to the melodies of verse. YOUTH AND MANHOOD. Youth, that pursuest with such eager pace Thou pantest on to win a mournful race: Pause and luxuriate in thy sunny plain; Once past, thou never wilt come back again The hills of manhood wear a noble face The mist of light from which they take their grace The dark and weary path those cliffs between And how it leads to regions never-green, Pause, while thou mayst, nor deem that fate thy gain, Will drive thee forth from this delicious plain, 1 Pontefract is a town in Yorkshire where the old Roman road crossed the Aire. The name (ad Pontem Fractum, "to the Broken Bridge") tells us that the Roman bridge must have remained unrepaired long enough for the name "Broken Bridge" to become fixed. Milnes's predecessor from this place was the celebrated John Gully, who had been a notorious prize-fighter and a notability on "the turf," and who sat as M.P. for Pontefract for a number of years. Hence the witty epigram of Horace Smith, "Strange is it proud Pontefract's borough Its fame by returning to Parliament Gully; His breaking the bridges of so many noses." So that England cannot consistently throw stones at us for our having in our Congress, occasionally, as we must acknowledge we have,-a very unworthy member. |