MUSIC'S POWER.

HAVE you not heard, in music's sound,
Some chords which o'er your heart
First fling a moment's magic round,
Then silently depart?

But when the echo on the air

Roused by that simple lay,

It leaves a world of feeling there
We cannot chase away.

Yes, yes, a sound hath power to bid them come, [home.
Youth's half-forgotten hopes, childhood's remembered

When sitting in your silent home

You

gaze

around and weep,

Or call to those who cannot come,

Nor wake from dreamless sleep; Those chords, so oft as you bemoan "The distant and the dead,"

Bring dimly back the fancied tone

Of some sweet voice that 's fled!

Yes, yes, a sound hath power to bid them come, [home. Youth's half-forgotten hopes, childhood's remembered

And when, amid the festal throng,

You are or would be gay

And seek to 'wile, with dance and song,

Your sadder thoughts away,

They strike those chords, and smiles depart,

As, rushing o'er your soul,

The untold feelings of the heart

Awake and spurn control!

Yes, yes, a sound hath power to bid them come, [home.

Youth's half-forgotten hopes, childhood's remembered

MARY HOWITT.

GENTLE, pure-hearted poet-we cannot call thee Mistress Howitt!-albeit thou art the wedded wife of a man worthy to bestow his name and the matronly title upon thee. But thy address should agree with the sweet, unpretending character of thy verse, which, like the Violet, is sought the more for its modest simplicity; and so we shall continue to speak of thee by that name, so dear to all lovers of true, heart-touching poetry-Mary Howitt.

We think Mary Howitt must always have been poetical. There is an ease in all her productions, and a playfulness of fancy in many of them, which could never have been gained by study. She has a warm love of nature, and of children-feelings that imbue the soul of a woman with the spirit of poesy-and then she is pious, tenderly, sincerely pious; and the subjects she chooses seem to harmonize with the tenor of her thoughts, like household words in a loving family. She has, also, a taste for the mystical, just sufficient to throw an air of romance over the every-day scenes of life, and give to the old traditions of fairy lore that reality which makes its teachings

"A lesson not to be unlearned."

The poems of Mary Howitt have chiefly appeared in the periodicals, or in works in which she has been associated with her husband, William Howitt. Her last production, "The Seven Temptations," has not been

republished in America; it well deserves to be, as it is imbued with those pious teachings which, invested in the garb of moving poetry, have a deep and abiding effect on the young.

There is in many parts of this work, as well as in some of her shorter poems, that fervor and power of expression which evince a genius of the first order. We think she has many of the best characteristics of Wordsworth's style-though no imitation, or the least touch of mannerism, is chargeable on our sweet poetess. But, like the lyrist of nature, she can create a scene of beauty where common eyes would see only a rough landscape—and draw forth tones of love and sympathy from chords which, in a less delicate and skilful hand, would breathe only harsh and repelling dissonance.

Mary Howitt has many advantages which will facilitate her literary progress. She is united to a man of fine genius and pure taste, and is encouraged by his approbation and example to cultivate her own powers. This is a felicity which few literary ladies have enjoyed, and the gentle and womanly manner in which she employs her talents shows that she appreciates her own happy lot. The religion of the Quakers, in which faith this gifted and amiable pair were educated, is very favorable to female genius. The influences of the spirit are equally encouraged and regarded in both sexes; hence a soulcompanionship is established between husband and wife, which, if they are endowed with fine talents and warm sensibilities, like the Howitts, must make their home a scene of improvement and delight.

"For them the wreath of love was woven With sparkling stars for flowers."

SPRING.

THE spring-she is a blessed thing!
She is the mother of the flowers;
She is the mate of birds and bees,
The partner of their revelries,

Our star of hope through wintry hours.

The merry children, when they see
Her coming, by the budding thorn,
They leap upon the cottage floor,
They shout beside the cottage door,

And run to meet her, night and morn.

They are soonest with her in the woods,
Peeping the withered leaves among,
To find the earliest, fragrant thing
That dares from the cold earth to spring,
Or catch the earliest wild-bird's song.

The little brooks run on in light,

As if they had a chase of mirth;

The skies are blue, the air is warm, Our very hearts have caught the charm That sheds a beauty over earth.

The aged man is in the field;

The maiden 'mong her garden flowers; The sons of sorrow and distress

Are wandering in forgetfulness

Of wants that fret and care that lowers.

She comes with more than present good—
With joys to store for future years,
From which, in striving crowds apart,
The bowed in spirit, bruised in heart,
May glean up hope with grateful tears.

Up-let us to the fields away,

And breathe the fresh and balmy air:
The bird is building in the tree,

The flower has opened to the bee,

And health, and love, and peace are there!

TRADITIONARY BALLAD.

THE FAIRIES OF THE

CALDON-LOW.-A

LEGEND.

MIDSUMMER

" AND where have you been, my Mary,
And where have you been from me?"
"I've been at the top of the Caldon-Low,
The Midsummer night to see!"

"And what did you see, my Mary,
All up on the Caldon-Low?"

"I saw the blithe sunshine come down,
And I saw the merry winds blow."

"And what did you hear, my Mary,
All up on the Caldon-Hill?”

"I heard the drops of the water made,
And the green corn ears to fill."