MRS. NORTON.

CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH SHERIDAN is the granddaughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, and was born about the year 1808. She 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 most unjustifiable, no one who is acquainted with the history of this most 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. Much of Byron's poetry is "earthly, sensual, devilish ;" while 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. But she can speak best for herself.

The following impassioned verses aro 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
Never to wake thy silent strings again;

A wandering dream thy gentle chords have wrought,
And my sad heart, which long hath dwelt in pain,
Soars like a wild bird from a cypress bough
Into the poet's heaven, and leaves dull grief below!

And unto thee-the beautiful and pure-
Whose lot is cast amid that busy world
Where only sluggish Dulness dwells secure,
And Fancy's generous wing is faintly furl'd;

To thee-whose friendship kept its equal truth

Through the most dreary hour of my imbitter'd youth

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 i

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, mert.

Thou, then, when cowards lied away my name,
And scoff'd to see me feebly stem the tide;
When some were kind on whom I had no claim,
And some forsook on whom my love relied,

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 steel
O'er minds like these, an easy faith to win;
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,
Whose ruffling pinion hath the power to fling
Aside the turbid drops which darkly gleam

And mar the freshness of her snowy wing-
So thou, with queenly grace and gentle pride,
Along the world's dark waves in purity dost glide:
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 mercy drew.

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,
Are idly open'd to the stranger's eye,
A dream of thee, aroused by Fancy's power,
Shall be the first to wander floating by;
And they who never saw thy lovely face

Shall pause, to conjure up a vision of its grace!

"A fine proof of Mrs. Norton's wide range of sympathy is to be found in the poem descriptive of an Arab's farewell to his horse. The enthusiastic regard, which it is well known the Arab always entertains for his steed, finds a most eloquent expositor in our author. The feeling is a beautiful one, and it is beautifully rendered."

THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO HIS STEED.

My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by,

With thy proudly-arch'd and glossy neck, thy dark and fiery eye-
Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy wingèd speed;
I may not mount on thee again-thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!
Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy wind,
The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind.
The stranger hath thy bridle-rein, thy master hath his gold,
Fleet limb'd and beautiful, farewell! thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt sold!

Farewell! those free untired limbs full many a mile must roam,
To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger's home;
Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bread prepare-
Thy silky mane I braided once must be another's care.
The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee
Shall I gallop through the desert paths where we were wont to be.
Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy plain
Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again.

Yes! thou must go! the wild free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,
Thy master's house, from all of these my exiled one must fly.
Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet,
And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck thy master's hand to meet.
Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright;
Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;
And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed,
Then must I, starting, wake to feel thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!

Ah, rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,
Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side;
And the rich blood that's in thee swells in thy indignant pain,
Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each starting vein.
Will they ill-use thee? If I thought-but no, it cannot be-
Thou art so swift, yet easy curb'd, so gentle yet so free.
And yet if haply, when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn,
Can the same hand which casts thee off command thee to return?

Return? Alas, my Arab steed, what shall thy master do,

When thou, who wert his all of joy, hast vanish'd from his view?
When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears,
Thy bright form for a moment like the false mirage appears.
Slow and unmounted will I roam with weary foot alone,

Where with fleet step and joyous bound thou oft hast borne me on:
And, sitting down by that green well, will pause and sadly think,
'Twas here he bow'd his glossy neck when last I saw him drink.

When last I saw him drink! Away! the fever'd dream is o'er ;
I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more;
They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power is strong;
They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long:
Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that thou wert sold?
'Tis false, 'tis false! my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold.
Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains-
Away!-Who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains!

A MOTHER.

Ah! bless'd are they for whom, 'mid all their pains,
That faithful and unalter'd love remains;

Who, Life wreck'd round them-hunted from their rest-
And, by all else forsaken or distress'd-

Claim, in one heart, their sanctuary and shrine-
As I, my Mother, claim'd my place in thine!
Oft, since that hour, in sadness I retrace
My childhood's vision of thy calm sweet face;
Oft see thy form, its mournful beauty shrouded
In thy black weeds, and coif of widow's woe;
Thy dark expressive eyes all dim and clouded

By that deep wretchedness the lonely know:
Stifling thy grief, to hear some weary task,

Conn'd by unwilling lips, with listless air;
Hoarding thy means, lest future need might ask
More than the widow's pittance then could spare.
Hidden, forgotten by the great and gay,

Enduring sorrow, not by fits and starts,
But the long self-denial, day by day,

Alone amidst thy brood of careless hearts!
Striving to guide, to teach, or to restrain,

The young rebellious spirits crowding round,

Who saw not, knew not, felt not for thy pain,

And could not comfort-yet had power to wound!
Ah! how my selfish heart, which since hath grown
Familiar with deep trials of its own,

With riper judgment looking to the past,
Regrets the careless days that flew so fast,

Stamps with remorse each wasted hour of time,
And darkens every folly into crime!

SONNET-TO MY BOOKS.

Silent companions of the lonely hour,
Friends, who can never alter or forsake,
Who for inconstant roving have no power,
And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take-
Let me return to You; this turmoil ending
Which worldly cares have in my spirit wrought,
And, o'er your old familiar pages bending,

Refresh my mind with many a tranquil thought,
Till haply meeting there, from time to time,
Fancies, the audible echo of my own,
'Twill be like hearing in a foreign clime

My native language spoke in friendly tone,
And with a sort of welcome I shall dwell
On these, my unripe musings, told so well.

SONNET THE WEAVER.

Little they think, the giddy and the vain,
Wandering at pleasure 'neath the shady trees,
While the light glossy silk or rustling train
Shines in the sun or flutters in the breeze,
How the sick weaver plies the incessant loom,
Crossing in silence the perplexing thread,
Pent in the confines of one narrow room,

Where droops complainingly his cheerless head:
Little they think with what dull anxious eyes,

Nor by what nerveless, thin, and trembling hands,

The devious mingling of those various dyes

Were wrought to answer Luxury's commands:

But the day cometh when the tired shall rest

Where weary Lazarus leans his head on Abraham's breast!

COMMON BLESSINGS.

Those "common blessings!" In this checker'd scene
How little thanksgiving ascends to God!

Is it, in truth, a privilege so mean

To wander with free footsteps o'er the sod,
See various blossoms paint the valley clod,
And all things into teeming beauty burst?
A miracle as great as Aaron's rod,
But that our senses, into dulness nurst,
Recurring Custom still with Apathy hath curst.

They who have rarest joy, know Joy's true measure;
They who most suffer value Suffering's pause;
They who but seldom taste the simplest pleasure,
Kneel oftenest to the Giver and the Cause.

Heavy the curtains feasting Luxury draws,

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.