Wound to a pitch too exquisite, The soul's fine chords are wrung; They are too highly strung. It never meets the love it paints, It dazzles only to divide From those who wear it not. Didst thou not tremble at thy fame, And loathe its bitter price, To this cold world of ours, Let others thank thee-'t was for them The red rose wastes itself in sighs Whose sweetness others breathe! And they have thanked thee-many a lip When thoughts, life's finer thoughts, have touched The spirit's inmost chords. How many loved and honored thee Which o'er the weary working world With what still hours of calm delight I cannot choose but think thou wert The charm that dwelt in songs of thine My inmost spirit moved; And yet I feel as thou hadst been Not half enough beloved. They say that thou wert faint and worn Oh! weary one! since thou art laid CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH NORTON.* THE Hon. Mrs. Norton is one of those favored mortals who, by birthright, inherit talents, and therefore, for her to become an authoress was not considered wonderful, as is usually the case with female writers. The granddaughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan could be no ordinary woman. Distinguished for beauty and gracefulness, among the gay circle in which she was native, as the “queenly Dahlia" is among the garden flowers, she added to the list of her accomplishments that more dazzling, because less common endowment, genius, early displayed, and hitherto steadily improving. At the age of twelve years she composed "The Dandies' Ball," a poetical description of a little book then quite the rage. "The Sorrows of Rosalie" was her next production, issued in 1829, about two years after her marriage. Since that period she has published several works, besides editing for some time past "The Court Journal.”—The longest poem of Mrs. Norton's-“The Undying One," was evidently written with much thought; the inclination of her mind leading her, doubt *There is a handsome English edition of her poems in two volumes: only a small selection from these have been reprinted in America. Her prose works," The Wife, and Woman's Reward," "The Coquette," and her shorter stories, are all familiar to American readers, as well as to the London public; and her fugitive lyrical compositions are very popular. less, to the effort, as one which would be more distinguished than short lyrical compositions. The subject was not well suited to her powers; it requires the deep, daring energy of a Byron or a Shelley to portray the dark, despairing and unholy passions which such a being as Isbal must have indulged. Nevertheless, our poetess has not failed the story is skilfully drawn out, and there are many touches of tenderness and love which are inimitable. But we better like her short poems: in these she displays more freedom and grace, more of the true poetical fervor which can invest common feelings and natural objects with the light of song, making treasures of those simple and humble things which the heart will hoard, and the memory retain. There is a resemblance between the poetic characteristics of Mrs. Norton and those of Barry Cornwall—both excel in the descriptive; both have great facility of versification; and there is a similar delicacy in their taste and fancy. But Barry Cornwall inclines sometimes to odd conceits and quaint old phrases, the affectation or the effect of more profound learning than any fair poet would be likely to display. Yet Mrs. Norton has a mind which might be greatly improved by study. Hers is not that fire-fly genius which shines sweetly on the fresh grass, or resting on a rose-bush in full blossom, but which is chilled and sunk by the first dark storm or cold frost. She has strength as well as beauty and sprightliness in her lay. Some of her prose writings show great power of portraying character, as well as of delineating the manners of society. In short, few of our literary ladies, at her age, have written so much and so well as Mrs. Norton. She has made literature her amusement along the rose-strewed path of life-she will find it a resource and solace amid its thorns. ALL IS FORGOTTEN. How strange that earth, our earth should share The billows of the treacherous main Will show in bright and sunny vest, Although its name is now a word, Through sobs, and moans, and wailing heard; There died the writhing death of war. Of agony; and when 't is gone, And all is still and silent round. And thus upon the cherished grave The sunbeams smile, the branches wave; And all our tears for those who now are not, Sink in the flowery turf-and are forgot! * * * * * |