Its death-like torpor vanish'd—and its doom, To cast its own dark hues o'er life and nature's bloom.

XVII.

And such his lot whom thou hast loved and left,
Spirit! thus early to thy home recall'd!
So sinks the heart, of hope and thee bereft,
A warrior's heart, which danger ne'er appall'd.
Years may pass on-and, as they roll along,
Mellow those pangs which now his bosom rend;
And he once more, with life's unheeding throng,
May, though alone in soul, in seeming blend;
Yet still, the guardian-angel of his mind
Shall thy loved image dwell, in Memory's temple
shrined.

XVIII.

Yet must the days be long ere time shall steal
Aught from his grief whose spirit dwells with thee:
Once deeply bruised, the heart at length may heal,
But all it was-oh! never more shall be.
The flower, the leaf, o'erwhelm'd by winter snow,
Shall spring again, when beams and showers return,
The faded cheek again with health may glow,
And the dim eye with life's warm radiance burn;
But the pure freshness of the mind's young bloom,
Once lost, revives alone in worlds beyond the tomb.

XIX.

But thou! thine hour of agony is o'er,
And thy brief race in brilliance hath been run;
While Faith, that bids fond nature grieve no more,
Tells that thy crown-though not on earth-is won.
Thou, of the world so early left, hast known
Nought but the bloom and sunshine-and for thee,
Child of propitious stars! for thee alone,
The course of love ran smooth1 and brightly free.
Not long such bliss to mortal could be given :
It is enough for earth to catch one glimpse of heaven.

XX.

What though, ere yet the noonday of thy fame
Rose in its glory on thine England's eye,
The grave's deep shadows o'er thy prospect came?
Ours is that loss-and thou wert blest to die!
Thou mightst have lived to dark and evil years,
To mourn thy people changed, thy skies o'ercast;
But thy spring morn was all undimm'd by tears,
And thou wert loved and cherish'd to the last!

1 "The course of true love never did run smooth."

SHAKSPEARE.

And thy young name, ne'er breathed in ruder tone, Thus dying, thou hast left to love and grief alone.

XXI.

Daughter of Kings! from that high sphere look down

Where still, in hope, affection's thoughts may rise;
Where dimly shines to thee that mortal crown
Which earth display'd to claim thee from the skies.
Look down! and if thy spirit yet retain
Memory of aught that once was fondly dear,
Soothe, though unseen, the hearts that mourn in
vain,

And in their hours of loneliness-be near!
Blest was thy lot e'en here-and one faint sigh,
Oh! tell those hearts, hath made that blest
eternity!2

2 These stanzas were dated, Brownwhylfa, 23d Dec. 1817, and first appeared in Blackwood's Magazine, vol. iii. April 1818.

EXTRACT FROM QUARTERLY REVIEW.

"The next volume in order consists principally of translations. It will give our readers some idea of Mrs Hemaus' acquaintance with books, to enumerate the authors from whom she has chosen her subjects;-they are Camoens, Metastasio, Filicaja, Pastorini, Lope de Vega, Francisco Manuel, Della Casa, Cornelio Bentivoglio, Quevedo, Juan de Tarsis, Torquato and Bernardo Tasso, Petrarca, Pietro Bembo, Lorenzini, Gesner, Chaulieu, Garcilaso de Veganames embracing almost every language in which the muse has found a tongue in Europe. Many of these translations are very pretty, but it would be less interesting to select any of them for citation, as our readers might not be possessed of or acquainted with the originals. We will pass on, therefore, to the latter part of the volume, which contains much that is very pleasing and beautiful. The poem which we are about to transcribe is on a subject often treated—and no wonder; it would be hard to find another which embraces so many of the elements of poetic feeling; so soothing a mixture of pleasing melancholy and pensive hope; such an assemblage of the ideas of tender beauty, of artless playfulness, of spotless purity, of transient yet imperishable brightness, of affections wounded, but not in bitterness, of sorrows gently subdued, of eternal and undoubted happiness. We know so little of the heart of man, that when we stand by the grave of him whom we deem most excellent, the thought of death will be mingled with some awe and uncertainty; but the gracious promises of scripture leave no doubt as to the blessedness of departed infants; and when we think what they now are and what they might have been, what they now enjoy and what they might have suffered, what they have now gained and what they might have lost, we may, indeed, yearn to follow them; but we must be selfish indeed to wish them again constrained' to dwell in these tenements of pain and sorrow. The Dirge of a Child,' which follows, embodies these thoughts and feelings, but in more beautiful order and language:

"No bitter tears for thee be shed," etc.-Vide page 55.

THE morn rose bright on scenes renown'd,

Wild Caledonia's classic ground,

Where the bold sons of other days
Won their high fame in Ossian's lays,
And fell-but not till Carron's tide
With Roman blood was darkly dyed.
The morn rose bright-and heard the cry
| Sent by exulting hosts on high,

And saw the white-cross banner float
(While rung each clansman's gathering-note)
O'er the dark plumes and serried spears
Of Scotland's daring mountaineers;

1 Advertisement by the Author." A native of Edinburgh, and member of the Highland Society of London, with a view │to give popularity to the project of rearing a suitable national monument to the memory of Wallace, lately offered prizes for the three best poems on the subject of that illustrious patriot inviting Bruce to the Scottish throne. The following poem obtained the first of these prizes. It would have appeared in the same form in which it is now offered to the public, under the direction of its proper editor, the giver of the prize; but his privilege has, with pride as well as pleasure, been yielded to a lady of the author's own country, who solicited permission to avail herself of this opportunity of bonouring and further remunerating the genius of the poet; and, at the same time, expressing her admiration of the theme in which she has triumphed.

"It is a noble feature in the character of a generous and enlightened people, that, in England, the memory of the patriots and martyrs of Scotland has long excited an interest not exceeded in strength by that which prevails in the country which boasts their birth, their deeds, and their sufferings." ["Mrs Hemans was recommended by a zealous friend in Edinburgh to enter the lists as a competitor, which she accordingly did, though without being in the slightest degree sanguine of success; so that the news of the prize having been decreed to her was no less unexpected than gratifying. The number of candidates, for this distinction, was so overwhelming as to cause not a little embarrassment to the judges appointed to decide on their merits. A letter, written at this fime, describes them as being reduced to absolute despair by the contemplation of the task which awaited them, having to read over a mass of poetry that would require a month at least to wade through. Some of the contributions were from the strangest aspirants imaginable; and one of them is mentioned as being as long as Paradise Lost. At length, however, the Herculean labour was accomplished; and the honour awarded to Mrs Hemans, on this occasion, seemed an earnest of the warm kindness and encouragement she was ever afterwards to receive at the hands of the Scottish public."- Memoir, p. 31-2.

Although two-thirds of the compositions sent to the arbiters, on the occasion alluded to, are understood to have been mere trash, yet several afterwards came to light, through the press,

As, all elate with hope, they stood,
To buy their freedom with their blood.

The sunset shone-to guide the flying,
And beam a farewell to the dying!
The summer moon, on Falkirk's field,
Streams upon eyes in slumber seal'd;
Deep slumber-not to pass away
When breaks another morning's ray,
Nor vanish when the trumpet's voice
Bids ardent hearts again rejoice:
What sunbeam's glow, what clarion's breath,
May chase the still cold sleep of death?

of very considerable excellence. We would especially mention "Wallace and Bruce, a Vision," published in Constable's Magazine for Dec. 1819; and "Wallace," by James Hogg, subsequently included in the fourth volume of his Collected Works-Edin. 1822, p. 143-160.

"The Vision" is thus prefaced :-"Though far from entering into a hopeless competition with Mrs Hemans, I think the far-famed interview of our patriot heroes ought not to be left entirely to English celebration. Mrs Hemans has adorned the subject with the finest strains of pure poetry. Receive here, as a humble contrast, a simple strain of genuine Scottish feeling, flowing from a mind that owns no other muse but the amor patriæ, and seeks no other praise but what is due to heartfelt interest in the glory of our ancient king. dom, and no higher name than that of a kindly Scot.'"

The Ettrick Shepherd is equally gallant in his laudations, and forgets his discomfiture in generous acknowledgement of the merits of his rival. "This poem," (Wallace,) says he, "was hurriedly and reluctantly written, in compliance with the solicitations of a friend who would not be gainsayed, to compete for a prize offered by a gentleman for the best poem on the subject. The prize was finally awarded to Mrs Felicia Hemans; and, as far as the merits of mine went, very justly, hers being greatly superior both in elegance of thought and composition. Had I been constituted the judge myself, I would have given hers the preference by many degrees; and I estimated it the more highly as coming from one of the people that were the hero's foes, oppressors, and destroyers. I think my heart never warmed so much to an author for any poem that ever was written."

Acceptable praise this must have been, coming from such a man as the Author of "The Queen's Wake"-a production entitled to a permanent place in British poetry, independently of the extraordinary circumstances under which it was composed. Whatever may be its blemishes, taken as a whole, "Kilmeny," "Glenavin," "Earl Walter," "The Abbot Mackinnon," and "The Witch of Fife "-more especially the first and the last-possess peculiar merits, and of a high kind; and are, I doubt not, destined to remain for ever embalmed in the memories of all true lovers of imaginative verse. Poor Hogg was the very reverse of Antæus-he was always in power except when he touched the earth.]

Shrouded in Scotland's blood-stain'd plaid,
Low are her mountain-warriors laid;
They fell, on that proud soil whose mould
Was blent with heroes' dust of old,
And, guarded by the free and brave,
Yielded the Roman-but a grave!
Nobly they fell; yet with them died
The warrior's hope, the leader's pride.
Vainly they fell-that martyr host-
All, save the land's high soul, is lost.
Blest are the slain! they calmly sleep,
Nor hear their bleeding country weep!
The shouts of England's triumph telling
Reach not their dark and silent dwelling;
And those surviving to bequeath
Their sons the choice of chains or death,
May give the slumberer's lowly bier
An envying glance-but not a tear.

But thou, the fearless and the free, Devoted Knight of Ellerslie !

No vassal-spirit, form'd to bow

When storms are gathering, clouds thy

brow;

No shade of fear or weak despair
Blends with indignant sorrow there!

The ray which streams on yon red field,
O'er Scotland's cloven helm and shield,
Glitters not there alone, to shed
Its cloudless beauty o'er the dead;
But where smooth Carron's rippling wave
Flows near that deathbed of the brave,
Illuming all the midnight scene,
Sleeps brightly on thy lofty mien.
But other beams, O Patriot! shine
In each commanding glance of thine,
And other light hath fill'd thine eye
With inspiration's majesty,

Caught from th' immortal flame divine
Which makes thine inmost heart a shrine !
Thy voice a prophet's tone hath won,
The grandeur Freedom lends her son;
Thy bearing a resistless power,
The ruling genius of the hour!
And he, yon Chief, with mien of pride,
Whom Carron's waves from thee divide,
Whose haughty gesture fain would seek
To veil the thoughts that blanch his cheek,
Feels his reluctant mind controll'd
By thine of more heroic mould:
Though struggling all in vain to war
With that high soul's ascendant star,
He, with a conqueror's scornful eye,
Would mock the name of Liberty.

Heard ye the Patriot's awful voice?—
"Proud Victor! in thy fame rejoice!
Hast thou not seen thy brethren slain,
The harvest of the battle-plain,

And bathed thy sword in blood, whose spot
Eternity shall cancel not?
Rejoice!-with sounds of wild lament
O'er her dark heaths and mountains sent,
With dying moan and dirge's wail,
Thy ravaged country bids thee hail !
Rejoice!-while yet exulting cries
From England's conquering host arise,
And strains of choral triumph tell
Her Royal Slave hath fought too well!
Oh, dark the clouds of woe that rest
Brooding o'er Scotland's mountain-crest !
Her shield is cleft, her banner torn,
O'er martyr'd chiefs her daughters mourn,
And not a breeze but wafts the sound
Of wailing through the land around.

Yet deem not thou, till life depart,
High hope shall leave the patriot's heart;
Or courage to the storm inured,
Or stern resolve by woes matured,
Oppose, to Fate's severest hour,
Less than unconquerable power!
No! though the orbs of heaven expire,
Thine, Freedom! is a quenchless fire;
And woe to him whose might would dare
The energies of thy despair!
No-when thy chain, O Bruce! is cast
O'er thy land's charter'd mountain-blast,
Then in my yielding soul shall die
The glorious faith of Liberty!"

With haughty laugh the Conqueror cries,
(Yet his dark cheek is flush'd with shame,
And his eye fill'd with troubled flame ;)
"Vain, brief illusions! doom'd to fly
England's red path of victory!
Is not her sword unmatch'd in might?
Her course a torrent in the fight?
The terror of her name gone forth
Wide o'er the regions of the north?
Far hence, midst other heaths and snows,
Must freedom's footstep now repose.
And thou-in lofty dreams elate,
Enthusiast strive no more with Fate !
"Tis vain-the land is lost and won:
Sheathed be the sword-its task is done.
Where are the chiefs that stood with theo
First in the battles of the free?

The firm in heart, in spirit high ?——
They sought yon fatal field to die.

Each step of Edward's conquering host
Hath left a grave on Scotland's coast."

"Vassal of England, yes! a grave Where sleep the faithful and the brave; And who the glory would resign Of death like theirs, for life like thine? They slumber-and the stranger's tread May spurn thy country's noble dead; Yet, on the land they loved so well, Still shall their burning spirit dwell, Their deeds shall hallow minstrel's theme, Their image rise on warrior's dream, Their names be inspiration's breath, Kindling high hope and scorn of death, Till bursts, immortal from the tomb, The flame that shall avenge their doom! This is no land for chains-away! O'er softer climes let tyrants sway. Think'st thou the mountain and the storm Their hardy sons for bondage form? Doth our stern wintry blast instil Submission to a despot's will? No! we were cast in other mould

Than theirs by lawless power controll'd;

The nurture of our bitter sky

Calls forth resisting energy;

And the wild fastnesses are ours,

The rocks with their eternal towers.

The soul to struggle and to dare
Is mingled with our northern air,
And dust beneath our soil is lying
Of those who died for fame undying.

"Tread'st thou that soil! and can it be
No loftier thought is roused in thee?
Doth no high feeling proudly start
From slumber in thine inmost heart?
No secret voice thy bosom thrill,
For thine own Scotland pleading still?
Oh! wake thee yet-indignant, claim
A nobler fate, a purer fame,
And cast to earth thy fetters riven,

And take thine offer'd crown from heaven.
Wake! in that high majestic lot
May the dark past be all forgot;
And Scotland shall forgive the field

Where with her blood thy shame was seal'd.
Een I-though on that fatal plain
Lies my heart's brother with the slain;
Though, reft of his heroic worth,
My spirit dwells alone on earth;

And when all other grief is past,

Must this be cherish'd to the last

Will lead thy battles, guard thy throne,
With faith unspotted as his own;
Nor in thy noon of fame recall

Whose was the guilt that wrought his fall."

Still dost thou hear in stern disdain?
Are Freedom's warning accents vain?
No! royal Bruce! within thy breast
Wakes each high thought, too long suppress'd.
And thy heart's noblest feelings live,
Blent in that suppliant word-"Forgive!"
"Forgive the wrongs to Scotland done!
Wallace! thy fairest palm is won;
And, kindling at my country's shrine,
My soul hath caught a spark from thine.
Oh! deem not, in the proudest hour
Of triumph and exulting power—
Deem not the light of peace could find
A home within my troubled mind.
Conflicts by mortal eye unseen,

Dark, silent, secret, there have been,
Known but to Him whose glance can trace

Thought to its deepest dwelling-place!

--'Tis past and on my native shore

I tread, a rebel son no more.

Too blest, if yet my lot may be

In glory's path to follow thee;

If tears, by late repentance pour'd,

May lave the blood-stains from my sword!"

Far other tears, O Wallace! rise
From the heart's fountain to thine eyes,
Bright, holy, and uncheck'd they spring,
While thy voice falters, "Hail! my King!
Be every wrong, by memory traced,
In this full tide of joy effaced:
Hail and rejoice!-thy race shall claim
A heritage of deathless fame,
And Scotland shall arise at length
Majestic in triumphant strength,
An eagle of the rock, that won

A way through tempests to the sun.
Nor scorn the visions, wildly grand,
The prophet-spirit of thy land:
By torrent-wave, in desert vast,
Those visions o'er my thought have pass'd:
Where mountain vapours darkly roll,
That spirit hath possess'd my soul;

And shadowy forms have met mine eye,
The beings of futurity;

And a deep voice of years to be

Hath told that Scotland shall be free!

E

He comes! exult, thou Sire of Kings!
From thee the chief, th' avenger springs !
Far o'er the land he comes to save,
His banners in their glory wave,
And Albyn's thousand harps awake
On hill and heath, by stream and lake,
To swell the strains that far around
Bid the proud name of Bruce resound!
And I-but wherefore now recall
The whisper'd omens of my fall?
They come not in mysterious gloom-
There is no bondage in the tomb !
O'er the soul's world no tyrant reigns,
And earth alone for man hath chains!
What though I perish ere the hour
When Scotland's vengeance wakes in power?
If shed for her, my blood shall stain
The field or scaffold not in vain :
Its voice to efforts more sublime
Shall rouse the spirit of her clime;
And in the noontide of her lot,
My country shall forget me not!"

Art thou forgot? and hath thy worth
Without its glory pass'd from earth?
Rest with the brave, whose names belong
To the high sanctity of song!
Charter'd our reverence to control,
And traced in sunbeams on the soul,
Thine, Wallace! while the heart hath still
One pulse a generous thought can thrill-
While youth's warm tears are yet the meed
Of martyr's death or hero's deed,
Shall brightly live from age to age,
Thy country's proudest heritage !
Midst her green vales thy fame is dwelling,
Thy deeds her mountain winds are telling,
Thy memory speaks in torrent-wave,
Thy step hath hallow'd rock and cave,
And cold the wanderer's heart must be
That holds no converse there with thee!
Yet, Scotland! to thy champion's shade
Still are thy grateful rites delay'd;
From lands of old renown, o'erspread
With proud memorials of the dead,
The trophied urn, the breathing bust,
The pillar guarding noble dust,

The shrine where art and genius high
Have labour'd for eternity-

The stranger comes: his eye explores
The wilds of thy majestic shores,
Yet vainly seeks one votive stone
Raised to the hero all thine own.

Land of bright deeds and minstrel-lore! Withhold that guerdon now no more. On some bold height of awful form, Stern eyrie of the cloud and storm, Sublimely mingling with the skies, Bid the proud Cenotaph arise: Not to record the name that thrills Thy soul, the watch-word of thy hills; Not to assert, with needless claim, The bright for ever of its fame; But, in the ages yet untold, When ours shall be the days of old,

To rouse high hearts, and speak thy pride In him, for thee who lived and died.

[These verses were thus critically noticed at the time of publication:

"When we mentioned in the tent, that Mrs Hemans had authorised the judges who awarded to her the prize to send her poem to us, it is needless to say with what enthusiasm the proposal of reading it aloud was received on all sides; and at its conclusion thunders of applause crowned the genius of the fair poet. Scotland has her Baillie-Ireland her TigheEngland her Hemans."-Blackwood's Magazine, vol. v. Sept. 1819.

"Mrs Hemans so soon again!--and with a palm in her hand! We welcome her cordially, and rejoice to find the high opinion of her genius which we lately expressed so unequivocally confirmed.

"On this animating theme, (the meeting of Wallace and Bruce,) several of the competitors, we understand, were of the other side of the Tweed-a circumstance, we learn, which was known from the references before the prizes were deter mined. Mrs Hemans's was the first prize, against fifty-seven competitors. That a Scottish prize, for a poem on a subject purely, proudly Scottish, has been adjudged to an English candidate, is a proof at once of the perfect fairness of the award, and of the merit of the poem. It further demonstrates the disappearance of those jealousies which, not a hundred | years ago, would have denied to such a candidate any thing like a fair chance with a native-if we can suppose any poet in the south then dreaming of making the trial, or viewing Wallace in any other light than that of an enemy, and a rebel against the paramount supremacy of England. We delight in every gleam of high feeling which warms the two nations alike, and ripens yet more that confidence and sympathy which bind them together in one great family."-Edin. Monthly Review, vol. ii.

The estimation into which the poetry of Mr Hemans was rising at this time, (1819,) is indicated by the following passage, from a clever and not very lenient satire, entitled "Common Sense," then published, and currently believed to have emanated from the pen of the Rev. Mr Terrot, now Diocesan Bishop of Edinburgh. When alluding to the female writers of the age, Miss Baillie is the first mentioned and characterised. He then proceeds

"Next I'd place

Felicia Hemans, second in the race;

I wonder the Reviews, who make such stir

Oft about rubbish, never mention her.

They might have said, I think, from mere good breeding-
Mistress Felicia's works are worth the reading."

"Mrs Hemans," adds the critical satirist in a note, "is a lady, (a young lady, I believe,) of very considerable merit. Her imagination is vigorous, her language copious and elegant, her information extensive. I have no means of ascertaining the extent of her fame, but she certainly deserves well of the republic of letters."

The worthy bishop has lived to read "The Records of Woman ;" and, we have no doubt, rejoices to know that the aspirant of 1819 has now taken her place among British! classics.]