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Thy coming step more musical,

And thy departing tread more sad.
They say the first bright dawn of love

Hath bliss no other time can show;
But I have lived and learned to know

How dearer far its future glow.

Their disappointments we have proved,

Dark clouds across our path have been;
Yet better through them all we loved,

As dark and drearier grew the scene.
Oh! would this truth could bring relief

To thee, when earthly cares annoy,
That I would rather share thy grief

Than revel in another's joy.

A temperament so framed must, of necessity, take pleasure in the beauties of Nature. I must make room for a few stanzas of her

ANTICIPATIONS OF THE COUNTRY.

The summer sunshine falls
O'er the hot vistas of the crowded town,

Startling the dusty walls
With beauty and with glory not their own;

The summer skies are bright.
A canopy of peace above the strife

Of human hearts that fight
And struggle on the battle plain of life.

Summers have passed away
Since I a dweller 'mid this scene became,

And still their earliest ray
Hath sent a thirsty longing through my frame;

A longing to be far
In the green woodlands, in the pastures fair, And not as travelers are;
My heart hath yearned to be a dweller there.

It comes, it comes at last;
All I have panted for is near me now;

Ere many hours have past,
A cool untroubled breeze shall fan my brow.

The faint continuous hum
That hath been round me till 'twas scarcely heard,

No more shall near me come
To mar the melodies of bee or bird.

No more the sultry street
Shall echo to my quick, uneasy tread;
Gladly I turn my feet

To where the turf in daisied pride is spread.

No more the whirling wheel,
The tramping horses, and the people's shout;—

Oh! how my heart will feel
The pleasant quiet circling me about.

Blessed to go away,
To where the wild-flower blooms and wood-bird sings,

And lightly o'er the spray
The purple vetch its wreathing garland flings.

* * * *

One more I must quote, of a still different strain. It was left without a title, a mere fragment among her papers; but the editor of the "Dublin University Magazine" has called it

THE GIFTED. Oh, woe for those whose dearest themes

Must rest within the bosom's fold!
Oh, woe for those who live on dreams,

Unheeded by the coarse and cold.
They have a hidden life, akin

To nothing in this earthly sphere;
They have a glorious world within,

Where nothing mortal may appear;
A world of song, and flower, and gem,

Yet woe for them! Oh, woe for them!Such his perplexing grief who seeks

A refuge upon stranger shores;
In vain to foreign ears he speaks,

In vain their sympathy implores.
The same sad fate a bark might prove,

Laden with gold or princely store,
Without a guiding star above,

With an unmeasured deep before.
The world doth scorn them, gibe condemn;—

Woe for the gifted! Woe for theml

Surely this was a very remarkable woman; and these poems (there are many more of nearly equal beauty) should not be left to the perishable record of a magazine. Her earliest publications were, as I have said, of little worth; but enough of the highest merit might be collected to form an enduring memorial of her genius and her virtues.

XVIII.

AMERICAN ORATORS.

DANIEL WEBSTER.

One of the greatest, if not the very greatest, of the living orators of America, is, beyond all manner of doubt, Daniel Webster. That he is also celebrated as a lawyer and a statesman, is a matter of course in that practical country, where even so high a gift as that of eloquence is brought to bear on the fortunes of individuals and the prosperity of the commonwealth,—no idle pilaster placed for ornament, but a solid column aiding to support the building. A column indeed, stately and graceful with its Corinthian capital, gives no bad idea of Mr. Webster; of his tall and muscular person, his massive features, noble head, and the general expression of placid strength by which he is distinguished. This is a mere fanciful comparison; but Sir Augustus Callcott's fine figure of Columbus has been reckoned very like him; a resemblance that must have been fortuitous, since the picture was painted before the artist had even seen the celebrated orator.

When in England some ten or twelve years ago, Mr. Webster's calm manner of speaking excited much admiration and perhaps a little surprise, as contrasted with the astounding and somewhat rough rapidity of progress which is the chief characteristic of his native land. And yet that calmness of manner was just what might be expected from a countryman of Washington, earnest, thoughtful, weighty, wise. No visitor to London ever left behind him pleasanter recollections, and I hope that the good impression was reciprocal. Every body was delighted with his geniality and taste; and he could hardly fail to like the people who so heartily liked him. Among our cities and our scenery he admired that most which was most worthy of admiration; preferring, in common with many of the most gifted of his coun trymen, our beautiful Oxford, whose winding street exhibits such a condensation of picturesque architecture, mixed with water, trees, and gardens, with ancient costume, with eager youth, with by-gone associations and rising hope, certainly to any of our new commercial towns, and perhaps, as mere picture, to London herself; and carrying home with him, as one of the most precious and characteristic memorials of the land of his forefathers, a large collection of architectural engravings, representing our magnificent Gothic cathedrals, and such of our Norman castles and Tudor manor-houses, as have escaped the barbarities of modern improvers. We are returning ourselves to that style now; but twelve years ago it was his own good taste, and not the fashion of the day that prompted the preference.

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I owe to his kindness, and to that of my admirable friend, Mr. Kenyon, who accompanied him, the honor and pleasure of a visit from Mr. Webster and his amiable family in their transit from Oxford to Windsor;—my local position between these two points of attraction has often procured for me the gratification of seeing my American friends when making that journey;—but during this visit, a little circumstance occurred so characteristic, so graceful, and so gracious, that I can not resist the temptation of relating it.

Walking in my cottage garden, we talked naturally of the roses and pinks that surrounded us, and of the different indigenous flowers of our island and of the United States. I had myself had the satisfaction of sending to my friend, Mr. Theodore Sedgwick, a hamper containing roots of many English plants familiar to our poetry: the common ivy—how could they want ivy who had had no time for ruins?—the primrose and the cowslip, immortalized by Shakspeare and by Milton; and the sweet-scented violets, both white and purple, of our hedgerows and our lanes; that known as the violet in America (Mr. Bryant somewhere speaks of it as "the yellow violet") being, I suspect, the little wild pansy (viola tricolor) renowned as the love-in-idleness of Shakspeare's famous compliment to Queen Elizabeth. Of these we spoke; and I expressed an interest in two flowers known to me only by the vivid description of Miss Martineau: the scarlet lily of New York and of the Canadian woods, and the fringed gentian of Niagara. I observed that our illustrious guest made some remark to one of the ladies of his party; but I little expected that, as soon after his return as seeds of these plants could be procured, I should receive a packet of each, signed and directed by his own hand. How much pleasure these little kindnesses give! And how many such have come to me from over the same wide ocean!

I could tell another story also of a great American orator, a story told to me two or three years before this occurrence by another distinguished American visitor. He told it to me with the low tone of a deep sympathy one summer evening in my old garden room, the moon rising red and full above the pyramid of geraniums, and the scent of a thousand flowers floating upon the air.

I do not know why I tell it here; except that both stories belong in some sort to my garden, and that both relate to men eminent in America as lawyers and as statesmen; although of my friend's hero, for obvious reasons, I do not venture to give the name. Many years have passed since I heard that interesting narrative, and in small circumstances of detail I may mistake; but the one great fact, the admirable self-denial and self-sacrifice can never be forgotten. It strikes too deep a root in the heart.

The story was of a father, one of those sturdy pioneers of American civilization, who hew their way through the Western Forest, and of his two stalwart boys. They had built a homestead, and cleared many acres around them, when, during a pause in their labors, one of the sons (I think the younger) addressed his father to this effect: "Father! the house is raised; the trees are down; the fields are fenced. You have my brother to help you and can do without me. Let me go to the town and study. I feel that I was born to fight my way among men, and not to wear out my days in the toils of a husbandman."

The father must have been worthy of such a son, for he understood him, and felt the full force of the appeal. "Well, my boy," said he; "go where you will, and my blessing shall go with you. Take these dollars and make them last as long as you can, for I have no more to give."

So the bold adventurer sallied forth to the nearest town where education was to be won. The dollars were but few; and the young pupil, although a model of frugality and application, found himself penniless long before he had fought his way through the college course. His courage, however, never failed. By that

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