1 This little poem derives an additional interest from being affectingly associated with a name no less distinguished than that of the late Mr Dugald Stewart. The admiration he always expressed for Mrs Hemans's poetry, was mingled with regret that she so generally made choice of melancholy subjects; and on one occasion, he sent her, through a mutual friend, a message suggestive of his wish that she would employ her fine talents in giving more consolatory views of the ways of Providence, thus infusing comfort and cheer into the bosoms of her readers, in a spirit of Christian philosophy, which, he thought, would be more consonant with the pious mind and loving heart displayed in every line she wrote, than dwelling on what was painful and depressing, however beautifully and touchingly such subjects might be treated of. This message was faithfully transmitted, and almost by return of post, Mrs Hemans (who was then residing in Wales) sent to

With shadows from the past we fill the happy woodland shades,

And a mournful memory of the dead is with us in the glades;

And our dream-like fancies lend the wind an echo's plaintive tone

Of voices, and of melodies, and of silvery laughter gone.

But are we free to do even thus-to wander as we will,

Bearing sad visions through the grove, and o'er the breezy hill?

No! in our daily paths lie cares, that ofttimes bind us fast,

While from their narrow round we see the golden day fleet past.

They hold us from the woodlark's haunts, and violet dingles, back,

And from all the lovely sounds and gleams in the shining river's track;

They bar us from our heritage of spring-time, hope, and mirth,

And weigh our burden'd spirits down with the cumbering dust of earth.

Yet should this be? Too much, too soon, despondingly we yield!

A better lesson we are taught by the lilies of the

field!

A sweeter by the birds of heaven-which tell us, in their flight,

Of One that through the desert air for ever guides them right.

Shall not this knowledge calm our hearts, and bid vain conflicts cease?

Ay, when they commune with themselves in holy hours of peace,

the kind friend to whom it had been forwarded, the poem of "Our Daily Paths," requesting it might be given to Mr Stewart, with an assurance of her gratitude for the interest he took in her writings, and alleging as the reason of the mournful strain which pervaded them, "that a cloud hung over her life which she could not always rise above."

The letter reached Mr Stewart just as he was stepping into the carriage, to leave his country residence (Kinneil House, the property of the Duke of Hamilton) for Edinburgh--the last time, alas! his presence was ever to gladden that happy home, as his valuable life was closed very shortly afterwards. The poem was read to him by his daughter, on his way to Edinburgh, and he expressed himself in the highest degree charmed and gratified with the result of his suggestions; and some of the lines which pleased him more particularly were often repeated to him during the few remaining weeks of his life.

And feel that by the lights and clouds through which our pathway lies,

Under its boughs to hear his voice, which yet Seems through their gloom to send a silvery tone}

THE CROSS IN THE WILDERNESS.

SILENT and mournful sat an Indian chief,
In the red sunset, by a grassy tomb;
His eyes, that might not weep, were dark with grief,
And his arms folded in majestic gloom;
And his bow lay unstrung, beneath the mound
Which sanctified the gorgeous waste around.

For a pale cross above its greensward rose,
Telling the cedars and the pines that there
Man's heart and hope had struggled with his woes,
And lifted from the dust a voice of prayer.
Nowall was hush'd-and eve's last splendour shone
With a rich sadness on th' attesting stone.

There came a lonely traveller o'er the wild,
And he, too, paused in reverence by that grave,
Asking the tale of its memorial, piled

Between the forest and the lake's bright wave;
Till, as a wind might stir a wither'd oak,
On the deep dream of age his accents broke.

And the gray chieftain, slowly rising, said—

"I listen'd for the words, which, years ago, Pass'd o'er these waters. Though the voice is fled Which made them as a singing fountain's flow, Yet, when I sit in their long-faded track, Sometimes the forest's murmur gives them back.

"Ask'st thou of him whose house is lone beneath?
I was an eagle in my youthful pride,
When o'er the seas he came, with summer's breath,
To dwell amidst us, on the lake's green side.
Many the times of flowers have been since then-
Many, but bringing naught like him again!

"Not with the hunter's bow and spear he came,
O'er the blue hills to chase the flying roe;
Not the dark glory of the woods to tame,
Laying their cedars, like the corn-stalks, low;
But to spread tidings of all holy things,
Gladdening our souls, as with the morning's wings.

"Doth not yon cypress whisper how we met,

I and my brethren that from earth are gone,

And our hearts burn'd within us as he spoke.

"Hope on, hope ever!-by the sudden springing Of green leaves which the winter hid so long; And by the bursts of free, triumphant singing,

After cold silent months the woods among; And by the rending of the frozen chains, Which bound the glorious rivers on their plains.

"Deem not the words of light that here were spoken,

But as a lovely song, to leave no trace; Yet shall the gloom which wraps thy hills be broken,

And the full dayspring rise upon thy race! And fading mists the better path disclose, And the wide desert blossom as the rose."

So by the cross they parted, in the wild,
Each fraught with musings for life's after day,
Memories to visit one, the forest's child,

By many a blue stream in its lonely way;
And upon one, midst busy throngs to press
Deep thoughts and sad, yet full of holiness.

["The Cross in the Wilderness,' by Mrs Hemans, is in every way worthy of her delightful genius; and nothing but want of room prevents us from quoting it entire. Mrs Hemans is, indeed, the star that shines most brightly in the hemisphere; and in every thing she writes, there is, along with a fine spirit of poetry, a still finer spirit of moral and religious truth. Of all the female poets of the day, Mrs Hemans is, in the best sense of the word, the most truly feminine-no false glitter about her-no ostentatious display -no gaudy and jingling ornaments-but, as an English matron ought to be, simple, sedate, cheerful, elegant, and religious."-PROFESSOR WILSON in Blackwood's Magazine.

Dec. 1826.

LAST RITES.

By the mighty minster's bell,
Tolling with a sudden swell;
By the colours half-mast high,
O'er the sea hung mournfully;
Know, a prince hath died!

By the drum's dull muffled sound, By the arms that sweep the ground, By the volleying muskets' tone, Speak ye of a soldier gone

In his manhood's pride.

By the chanted psalm that fills
Reverently the ancient hills,1

1 A custom still retained at rural funerals in some parts of England and Wales.

2 "It is long since we have read any thing more beautiful

Learn, that from his harvests done,
Peasants bear a brother on
To his last repose.

By the pall of snowy white
Through the yew-trees gleaming bright;
By the garland on the bier,
Weep! a maiden claims thy tear-
Broken is the rose !

Which is the tenderest rite of all ?-
Buried virgin's coronal,

Requiem o'er the monarch's head,
Farewell gun for warrior dead,

Herdsman's funeral hymn?

Tells not each of human woe?
Each of hope and strength brought low?
Number each with holy things,
If one chastening thought it brings
Ere life's day grow dim!

THE HEBREW MOTHER.2

THE rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain,
When a young mother, with her first-born, thence
Went up to Zion; for the boy was vow'd
Unto the Temple service. By the hand
She led him, and her silent soul, the while,
Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye
Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think
That aught so pure, so beautiful was hers,
To bring before her God. So pass'd they on
O'er Judah's hills; and wheresoe'er the leaves
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon,
Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive boughs,
With their cool dimness, cross'd the sultry blue
Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might rest;
Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep
That weigh'd their dark fringe down, to sit and
watch

The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose,
As at a red flower's heart. And where a fount
Lay, like a twilight star, midst palmy shades,
Making its bank green gems along the wild,
There, too, she linger'd, from the diamond wave
Drawing bright water for his rosy lips,
And softly parting clusters of jet curls

To bathe his brow. At last the fane was reach'd,

than the following poem by Mrs Hemans."-Blackwood's Magazine. Jan. 1826.

The earth's one sanctuary-and rapture hush'd
Her bosom, as before her, through the day,
It rose, a mountain of white marble, steep'd
In light like floating gold. But when that hour
Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy
Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye
Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear, [her arm
Turn'd from the white-robed priest, and round
Clung even as joy clings-the deep spring-tide
Of nature then swell'd high, and o'er her child
Bending, her soul broke forth in mingled sounds
Of weeping and sad song.
"Alas!" she cried,-

"Alas! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me, The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes; And now fond thoughts arise,

And silver cords again to earth have won me, And like a vine thou claspest my full heartHow shall I hence depart?

"How the lone paths retrace where thou wert playing

So late, along the mountains, at my side?

And I, in joyous pride,

By every place of flowers my course delaying,
Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair,
Beholding thee so fair!

"And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted,

Will it not seem as if the sunny day

Turn'd from its door away? [hearted, While through its chambers wandering, wearyI languish for thy voice, which past me still Went like a singing rill?

"Under the palm-trees thou no more shalt meet me, When from the fount at evening I return,

With the full water-urn;

Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings greet As midst the silence of the stars I wake, [me, And watch for thy dear sake.

"And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee,

Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed?

Wilt thou not vainly spread

Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear, [thee, A cry which none shall hear?

"What have I said, my child! Will Henot hear thee, Who the young ravens heareth from their nest? Shall He not guard thy rest,

And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee, Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy? Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy.

"I give thee to thy God-the God that gave thee,
A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart!
And, precious as thou art,

And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee,
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled!
And thou shalt be His child.

"Therefore, farewell! I go-my soul may fail me, As the hart panteth for the water brooks, Yearning for thy sweet looks.

But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me; Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell,

The Rock of Strength.-Farewell!"

["It would be wearisomely superfluous to enumerate the long series of lyrics which she now poured forth with increasing earnestness and rapidity, and without which none of the lighter periodicals of the day made its appearance. One or two, however, must be mentioned, as certain to survive so long as the short poem shall be popular in England. The Treasures of the Deep,'The Hour of Death,' 'The Graves of a Household,' 'The Cross in the Wilderness,' are all admirable. With these, too, may be mentioned those poems in which a short descriptive recitative (to borrow a word from the opera) introduces a lyrical burst of passion or regret, or lamentation. This form of composition became so especially popular in America, that hardly a poet has arisen, since the influence of Mrs Hemans' genius made itself felt on the other side of the Atlantic, who has not attempted something of a similar subject and construction. "The Hebrew Mother' has been followed by an infinite number of sketches from Scripture: this lyric, too, should be particularised as having made friends for its authoress among those of the ancient faith in England. Among the last strangers who visited her, eager to thank her for the pleasure her writings had afforded them, were a Jewish gentleman and lady, who entreated to be admitted by the author of the Hebrew Mother.""-CHORLEY'S Memorials of Mrs Hemans, p. 114-15.

"Her Voice of Spring,' her Hour of Death,' her 'Treasures of the Deep,' her Graves of a Household,' her England's Dead,' her Trumpet,' her Hebrew Mother,' and a host of similar pieces-these are the undying lays, the lumps of pure gold. We do not think thus with reference to Mrs Hemans' lyrics only; it strikes us that nearly all our present poets must depend for future fame on their shorter pieces."— Literary Magnet, 1826.]

THE WRECK.

ALL night the booming minute-gun
Had peal'd along the deep,
And mournfully the rising sun

Look'd o'er the tide-worn steep. A bark from India's coral strand, Before the raging blast,