Though in some particulars Mrs. Hemaus may be inferior to some of the female poets of the nineteenth century,-to Joanna Baillie, for instance, in vigor of conception, to Caroline Bowles in simple pathos, to Mary Howitt in fresh nature, or to Mrs. Browning in deep, philosophic thought and profound learning,—yet, as a female writer, influencing not only her own sex but the general mind, from the pure and elevated sentiments as well as the exceeding beauty of her poetry, especially of her lyrical pieces, she is undoubtedly entitled to take very high rank among her contemporaries. Her great excellence has been acknowledged in our own country as well as in England. In her poetry, religious truth, moral purity, intellectual beauty, beautiful imagery, and melodious versification, all meet; and, while it addresses itself to the better feelings of our nature, it at the same time exalts the imagination and refines the taste. "Her forte," says a discriminating critic, "lay in depicting whatever tends to beautify and embellish domestic life, by purifying the passions and by sanctifying the affections; making man an undying and unquenchable spirit, and earth, his abode, a holy place."

From the writings of one who has written so much and so well, it is difficult to know what to select and where to stop; but the following pieces will, it is believed, give a correct idea of her merits and her general style.

HEBREW MOTHER.

The rose was rich in 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 banks 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,
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

Turn'd from the white-robed priest, and round her arm

Clung as the ivy 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,

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"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 heart:-
How 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?

While through its chambers wandering, weary-hearted,
I 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 me, As midst the silence of the stars I wake,

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 vail hath wound thee,
20 fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear,

A cry which none shall hear?

What have I said, my child?-Will He not 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 wellspring 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!"

THE STRANGER'S HEART.

The stranger's heart! oh, wound it not!
A yearning anguish is its lot;

In the green shadow of thy tree,
The stranger finds no rest with thee.

Thou think'st the vine's low rustling leaves
Glad music round thy household eaves;
To him that sound hath sorrow's tone,-
The stranger's heart is with his own.

Thou think'st thy children's laughing play
A lovely sight at fall of day;

Then are the stranger's thoughts oppress'd,-
His mother's voice comes o'er his breast.

Thou think'st it sweet, when friend with friend
Beneath one roof in prayer may blend;
Then doth the stranger's eye grow dim,-
Far, far are those who pray'd with him.

Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land,-
The voices of thy kindred band,-
Oh, midst them all, when blest thou art,
Deal gently with the stranger's heart.

THE HOUR OF DEATH.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set,--but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Day is for mortal care,

Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,

Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer,—

But all for thee, thou Mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour,

Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine;

There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power,

A time for softer tears,-but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thee,-but thou art not of those That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set,—but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

We know when moons shall wane,

When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea,

When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain,

But who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when Spring's first gale

Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?—
They have one season,-all are ours to die!

Thou art where billows foam,

Thou art where music melts upon the air;

Thou art around us in our peaceful home;
And the world calls us forth,-and thou art there.
Thou art where friend meets friend,

Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest,

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend
The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.
Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set,—but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

THE HOUR OF PRAYER.

Child, amid the flowers at play,
While the red light fades away;
Mother, with thine earnest eye,
Ever following silently;
Father, by the breeze of eve
Call'd thy harvest work to leave,
Pray, ere yet the dark hours be,-
Lift the heart and bend the knee!

Traveller, in the stranger's land,
Far from thine own household band;
Mourner, haunted by the tone
Of a voice from this world gone;

Captive, in whose narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell;
Sailor, on the darkening sea,-
Lift the heart and bend the knee!

Warrior, that from battle won,
Breathest now at set of sun;
Woman, o'er the lowly slain
Weeping on his burial-plain;
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh,
Kindred by one holy tie,
Heaven's first star alike ye see,—
Lift the heart and bend the knee!

BRING FLOWERS.

Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board,
To wreathe the cup ere the wine is pour'd:
Bring flowers! they are springing in wood and vale:
Their breath floats out on the southern gale;

And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose,
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows.

Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell,-
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell;
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky,
And the bright world shut from his languid eye:
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours,

And the dream of his youth,-bring him flowers, wild flowers.
Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear!
They were born to blush in her shining hair.
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth,
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth;
Her place is now by another's side,-

Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride!

Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed,
A crown for the brow of the early dead!

For this through its leaves hath the white rose burst,
For this in the woods was the violet nursed!

Though they smile in vain for what once was ours,
They are love's last gift,-bring ye flowers, pale flowers!

Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer,—
They are nature's offering, their place is there!
They speak of hope to the fainting heart,
With a voice of promise they come and part;
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours,

They break forth in glory,-bring flowers, bright flowers!

EVENING PRAYER AT A GIRLS" SCHOOL.

Now, in thy youth, beseech of Him
Who giveth, upbraideth not,

That his light in thy heart become not dim,
And his love be unforgot:

And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be
Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee.
BERNARD BARTON.

Hush! 'tis a holy hour,-the quiet room

Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds
A faint and starry radiance through the gloom

And the sweet stillness down on fair young heads,
With all their clustering locks untouch'd by care,
And bow'd, as flowers are bow'd with night, in prayer.

Gaze on,-'tis lovely!-childhood's lip and cheek,
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought:
Gaze, yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek,
And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought?
Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky,
What death must fashion for eternity!

O joyous creatures! that will sink to rest

Lightly, when those pure orisons are done, As birds with slumber's honey-dew opprest, Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun,Lift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes.

Though fresh within your breast the untroubled springs
Of hope make melody where'er ye tread,

And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings
Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread;
Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low,
Is woman's tenderness,-how soon her wo!

Her lot is on you,-silent tears to weep,

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour,
And sumless riches, from affection's deep,

To pour on broken reeds,-a wasted shower!
And to make idols, and to find them clay,
And to bewail that worship,-therefore pray!