Imágenes de páginas

Though a blush is scarcely seen,
Yet it hides its worth within,
Like my love; for I've no power,
My angel, Mary Lee,
To speak, unless the flower
Can make excuse for me.

Though they deck no princely halls,
In bouquets for glittering balls,
My gentle Mary Lee
Richer hues than painted walls
Will make them dear to thee;
For the blue and laughing sky
Spreads a grander canopy,
Than all wealth's golden skill,
My charming Mary Lee |
Love would make them dearer still,
That offers them to thee.

My wreathed flowers are few,
Yet no fairer drink the dew,
My bonny Mary Lee :
They may seem as trifles too—
Not I hope to thee.
Some may boast a richer prize
Under pride and wealth's disguise;
None a fonder offering bore
Than this of mine to thee;
And can true love wish for more ?
Surely not, Mary Lee!

CA Ro LIN E Eliz A Beth SAR Air Nonton, the second daughter of Thomas, and the grand-daughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, was born in London. Soon after the union of Mr. Sheridan with her mother (the daughter of Colonel and Lady Elizabeth Callander), he became consumptive, and was induced to try the effects of a warmer climate upon his constitution. His wife accompanied him to Madeira, and subsequently to the Cape, where, after lingering two or three years, he died. His still young and beautiful widow returned to England, to superintend the education of her children,_ a task to which she devoted herself with engrossing zeal, passing the best and generally the vainest years of a woman's life, apart from the gay world; indifferent to the lures of society, and sacrificing even her personal comforts to advance their interests and form their minds. To this accomplished and excellent parent may be attributed much of Mrs. Norton's literary fame;—it forms another link in that long chain of hereditary genius which has now been extended through a whole century. Her sister, the lady of the Hon. Captain Price Blackwood, is also a writer of considerable taste and power: her publications have been anonymous, and she is disinclined to seek that notoriety which the “pursuits of literature” obtain;—but those who are acquainted with the productions of her pen will readily acknowledge their surpassing merit. The sisters used, in their childish days, to write together; and, before either of them had attained the age of twelve years, they produced two little books of prints and verses, called, “ the Dandies' Ball,” and “the Travelled Dandies;” both being imitations of a species of caricature then in vogue. But we believe that, at a much earlier period, Mrs. Norton had written poetry, which even now she would not be ashamed to see in print. Her disposition to “scribble,” was, however, checked rather than encouraged by her mother; for a long time, pen, ink, and paper were denied to the young Poetess, and works of fiction carefully kept out of her way, with a view of compelling a resort to occupations of a more useful character. Her active and energetic mind, notwithstanding, soon accomplished its cherished purpose. At the age of seventeen, she wrote “the Sorrows of Rosalie;" and, although it was not published until some time afterwards, she had scarcely passed her girlhood before she had established for herself the distinction which had long been attached to her maiden name.

At the age of nineteen, Miss Sheridan was married to the Hon. George Chapple Norton, brother to the present Lord Grantley. He had proposed for her three years previously, but her mother had postponed the contract until the daughter was better qualified to fix her choice. These years had enabled her to make acquaintance with one whose early death prevented a union more consonant to her feelings. When Mr. Norton again sought her hand, he received it. It is unnecessary to add, that the marriage has not been a happy one: the world has heard the slanders to which she has been exposed; and a verdict of acquittal from all who, for a moment, listened to them, can scarcely have atoned for the cruel and baseless suspicions to which she had been subjected.

Mrs. Norton has published two volumes of poetry, “The Sorrows of Rosalie,” and “the Undying One.” The former tells the story of a ruined cottage girl; and the latter is founded on the superstition of the wandering Jew. The subject of the latter especially, was ill chosen; a circumstance for which the authoress accounts, by stating that until she married she had read fewer works of fiction than most young persons. The St. Leon of Godwin, and the wild romance of Maturin, were unknown to her ; and she imagined she was 1N v ENTING, when she was, in fact, only following in the path of her predecessors.

Mrs. Norton is eminently beautiful: her form is peculiarly graceful and dignified; and her features are exquisitely chiselled,—but hers is that intellectual beauty with which there is usually mingled a degree of haughtiness. She must occupy a high station among female authors, of which our age may boast a long and dazzling list. Her mind is of a high order; but she is far from having attained the zenith of her fame.

Her poetry is distinguished both by grace and energy. She is, perhaps, deficient in that inventive faculty in which some of her contemporaries have so greatly excelled; but her productions are full of thought, there is nothing of the aspect of poverty in anything she has written; on the contrary, her ideas seem too large and abundant for her verse; and she far more often crowds her materials than ekes out a description by words that might be dispensed with.



Low she lies, who blest our eyes
Through many a sunny day;
She may not smile, she will not rise,
The life hath past away!
Yet there is a world of light beyond,
Where we neither die nor sleep;
She is there, of whom our souls were fond,-
Then wherefore do we weep *

The heart is cold, whose thoughts were told
In each glance of her glad bright eye;
And she lies pale, who was so bright,
She scarce seemed made to die.

Yet we know that her soul is happy now,
Where the saints their calm watch keep ;

That angels are crowning that fair young brow,
Then wherefore do we weep *

Her laughing voice made all rejoice,
Who caught the happy sound;
There was gladness in her very step,
As it lightly touched the ground.
The echoes of voice and step are gone,
There is silence still and deep;
Yet we know she sings by God's bright throne,—
Then wherefore do we weep *

The cheek's pale tinge, the lid's dark fringe,
That lies like a shadow there,
Were beautiful in the eyes of all,—
And her glossy golden hair!
But though that lid may never wake
From its dark and dreamless sleep;
She is gone where young hearts do not break, -
Then wherefore do we weep

That world of light with joy is bright,
This is a world of woe:
Shall we grieve that her soul hath taken flight,
Because we dwell below 2
We will bury her under the mossy sod,
And one long bright tress we'll keep ;
We have only given her back to God,
Ah! wherefore do we weep

THE MoTHER's fire Ant.

When first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond,

My eldest-born, first hope, and dearest treasure,

My heart received thee with a joy beyond

All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure;

Nor thought that any love again might be
So deep and strong as that I felt for thee.

Faithful and fond, with sense beyond thy years,
And natural piety that lean'd to heaven;
Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears,
Yet patient of rebuke when justly given:
Obedient, easy to be reconciled;
And meekly cheerful, such wert thou, my child !

Not willing to be left; still by my side
Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dying ;
Nor leaving in thy turn: but pleased to glide
Thro' the dark room where I was sadly lying,
Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek,
Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek.

Oh! boy, of such as thou are oftenest made
Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower,
No strength in all thy freshness, prone to fade,-
And bending weakly to the thunder-shower;
Still, round the loved, thy heart found force to bind,
And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind!

Then Thou, my merry love;—bold in thy glee,
Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing,
With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free,
Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing glancing,
Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth,
Like a young sunbeam to the gladden'd earth !

Thine was the shout! the song ! the burst of joy!
Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip resoundeth ;
Thine was the eager spirit nought could cloy,
And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth ;
And many a mirthful jest and mock reply,
Lurk'd in the laughter of thy dark blue eye'

And thine was many an art to win and bless,
The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming;
The coaxing smile;—the frequent soft caress;–
The earnest tearful prayer all wrath disarming !
Again my heart a new affection found,
But thought that love with thee had reach'd its bound.

« AnteriorContinuar »