MARY-ANN BROWNE.*

THIS young poet, daughter of a gentleman of Twickenham, and reared in that atmosphere of the muses where Pope lived and sung, gave early promise of genius. At the age of fifteen she published a volume—“ Ada and other Poems," which was very kindly received by the literary public, and gained for its juvenile writer the friendship and correspondence of some of the "first and best" of England's gifted bards. Among these friends was Miss Landon. She has a poem, among the miscellaneous pieces in the Venetian Bracelet, addressed to the "author of Ada, &c." which expresses beautifully and feelingly the interest she took in the genius and future excellence of her young sister of the lyre. How brightly she has touched the portrait!

* Many of the_latest poems of Miss Browne have appeared in the " Knickerbocker," published at New York, and these have made her name known, and her genius highly esteemed, in this country. It has been thought here that she was a relative of Mrs. Hemans, as she bore the maiden surname of that lady; but we have learned that it is only in soul and genius that the relationship can be traced there is no family affinity. The sister of Mrs. Hemans, who composes music, is no poet.

*

Itself the pleasure which it knows,
The pure, the undefined:

And thou art in that happy hour
Of feeling's, uncurbed, youthful power.

Yes, thou art very young, and youth,
Like light, should round thee fling
The sunshine thrown round morning's hour,
The gladness given to spring;
And yet upon thy brow is wrought
The darkness of that deeper thought,
Which future time should bring.
What can have traced that shadowy line
Upon a brow so young as thine?

"Tis written in thy large dark eyes,
Filled with unbidden tears;
The passionate paleness of thy cheek,
Belying thy few years.

A child, yet not the less thou art
One of the gifted hand and heart,

Whose deepest hopes and fears
Are omen-like: the poet's dower
Is ever as the prophet's power.

With thine own people' dost thou dwell,
And by thine own fireside,

And kind eyes keep o'er thee a watch,
Their darling and their pride.

I cannot choose but envy thee;
The very name of home to me

Has been from youth denied;
But yet it seems like sacred ground,
By all earth's best affections bound.

"T is well for thee! thou art not made Struggle like this to share;

Ill might that gentle, loving heart

The world's cold conflict bear."

We have quoted largely from the poem, because it describes the youthful poet whose works we are considering better than, from the scanty materials we have obtained, we could hope to portray her. Miss Landon thus takes leave of her young friend:

"Sweet minstrel, fare thee well!
And may for once the laurel wreath
Not wither all that grows beneath."

There is very little, if any, display of that sort of tender and flowery description which may be termed sentimentalism, in the poetry of Miss Browne. She is reflective, serious, and at times sublime. Human nature, as its passions and changes, hopes and fears, and joys are displayed in books, and in social life, seems to have been her study, rather than "running brooks" or "flowery meads." Hence her style has been modelled more on the manner of the old bards, than is usual with those who write at so early an age. She condenses her thoughts, and this gives power and energy to her language. And the moral tone of her poetry is heavenward. We think she shows great promise of future excellence. It requires much observation and experience to ripen such a mind as hers. Moral poetry, particularly, when deduced from "this scene of man, must be imbued with much knowledge; it must teach the reason as well as touch the heart of the reader. And, in some of her poems, Mary-Ann Browne shows this power. She has, likewise, a bold and ardent imagination, and delineates vividly the impressions which her fancy has suggested. But though her genius expanded early, and has grown like the jasmine flower, yet she must bear in mind that a woman

"Who strives to soar

On learning's wings, to Fame's bright sky,

Far from the crowd must seek that lore,
Unheeded live, sequestered die-
And, like the jasmine, when she 's fled,
Fame's rich perfume will ever keep
Lingering around the faded dead,

As saints that watch some infant's sleep."

MAN'S LOVE.

WHEN Woman's eye grows dull,
And her cheek paleth,
When fades the beautiful,
Then man's love faileth;
He sits not beside her chair,
Clasps not her fingers,
Twines not the damp hair,

That o'er her brow lingers.

He comes but a moment in,
Though her eye lightens,
Though her cheek, pale and thin,
Feverishly brightens:

He stays but a moment near,
When that flash fadeth,
Though true affection's tear

Her soft eyelid shadeth.

He goes from her chamber straight

Into life's jostle,

He meets at the very gate

Business and bustle;

He thinks not of her within,

Silently sighing,

He forgets, in that noisy din,

That she is dying!

And when her young heart is still,

What though he mourneth, Soon from his sorrow chill

Wearied he turneth. Soon o'er her buried head Memory's light setteth, And the true-hearted dead Thus man forgetteth!

WOMAN'S LOVE.

WHEN man is waxing frail,

And his hand is thin and weak, And his lips are parched and pale, And wan and white his cheek,

Oh, then doth woman prove
Her constancy and love!

She sitteth by his chair,

And holds his feeble hand;

She watcheth ever there,

His wants to understand;

His yet unspoken will

She hasteneth to fulfil.

She leads him, when the noon
Is bright o'er dale or hill,
And all things, save the tune

Of the honey bees, are still,
Into the garden bowers,
To sit 'midst herbs and flowers.

And when he goes not there,

To feast on breath and bloom,