ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. AMERICAN readers have as yet seen but few | GREY; but Lady JANE GREY has left us no of the productions of this lady, but she has such verses. already made herself a home in the hearts of the people; a proof that the popular taste A striking characteristic of Miss BARRETT'S verse, is its prevailing seriousness, approach 66 does not lie altogether in the direction of singing to solemnity-a garb borrowed from the song echoes, sickly sentiment, or empty blank verse; and a proof, too, in her own case, that the most varied acquirements of learning do not impair the subtlest delicacy of thought and feeling. Miss BARRETT, in her earlier works and first adventurous attempts, is the poetess of angels and seraphim, breathing a rare and elevated atmosphere, too rare for habitual contemplation. In her later style, she is the sweet poetess of meditation and thought, of a deep and pure spirituality, of Philosophy, baptized In the pure fountain of eternal love. Compare the eloquence of her poem entitled "Cowper's Grave," with what generally passes for Byronic eloquence, and mark the difference. Here is thought compact and close, enthusiasm fresh from the heart, noble domestic incident, and sorrow as gentle and as mild as ever breathed from a human bosom. Mark the pathos, the tenderness, the deep sympathy in the poem, "The Sleep." Miss BARRETT's productions are unique in this age of lady authors. They have the "touch of nature," in common with the best; they have, too, sentiment, passion, and fancy in the highest degree, without any imitation of NORTON, HEMANS, or LANDON. Her excellence is her own; her mind is coloured by what it feeds on; the fine tissue of her flowing style comes to us from the loom of Grecian thought. She is the learned poetess of the day, familiar with HOMER and ÆSCHYLUS and SOPHOCLES; and to the musings of Tempe she has added the inspiration of Christianity, "above all Greek, all Roman fame." She has translated the Prometheus, to the delight of scholars, and has contributed a series of very valuable prose papers "On the Poetry of the Early Church," to the London "Athenæum." Her reading Greek recalls to us ROGER ASCHAM's anecdote of Lady JANE sceptred pall" of her favourite Greek drama of fate. She loses much with the general reader, by a dim mysticism; but many of her later poems are entirely free from any such defect. The great writers whom she loves will teach her the plain, simple, universal language of poetry. Her dreams and abstractions, though "caviàre to the generale," have their admirers, who will ever find in pure and elevated philosophy, expressed in the words of enthusiasm, the living presence of poetry. On Parnassus there are many groves: far from the dust of the highway, embosomed in twilight woods, that seem to symbol Reverence and Faith trusting on the unseen, we may hear, in the whispering of the trees, the wavering breath of insect life, the accompaniment of our poet's strain. Despise not dreams and reveries. With COWLEY, Miss BARRETT vindicates herself. The father of poets tells us, even dreams, too, are from God.” Miss BARRETT has published two volumes of poetry, "Prometheus Bound, and Miscellaneous Poems," in 1833, and "The Seraphim and other Poems," in 1838; and we understand that she has a forthcoming volume in the press. It will be a welcome one to all lovers of true poetry. In our judgment, Miss BARRETT is destined, in due time, to take her place at the head of the female poets of Great Britain. The noble ardour with which she writes, makes us believe that this new volume will go far toward determining the question. Of her personal history, we know very little. She resides in London, and is one of the stars in a brilliant constellation of scholars, philosophers, and poets. She was a contributor, with WORDSWORTH, HUNT, and HORNE, to "Chaucer Modernized," and besides her prose writings in "The Athenæum," has written for that admirable gazette some of her finest poems. COWPER'S GRAVE. I will invite thee, from thy envious herse Ir is a place where poets crown'd May weep amid their praying- As low as silence languish; O poets! from a maniac's tongue Was pour'd the deathless singing! Your weary paths beguiling, And now, what time ye all may read And darkness on the glory- · He wore no less a loving face, He shall be strong to sanctify And bow the meekest Christian down Nor ever shall he be in praise With sadness that is calm, not gloom, On God, whose heaven hath won him- Where breath and bird could find him; And wrought within his shatter'd brain As hills have language for, and stars The pulse of dew upon the grass The very world, by God's constraint, From falsehood's chill removing, Its women and its men became Beside him true and loving! And timid hares were drawn from woods But while in blindness he remain'd, Though frenzy desolated,- Whom only God created! Like a sick child, that knoweth not That turns his fever'd eyes around NAPOLEON'S RETURN. NAPOLEON! years ago, and that great word, Compact of human breath in hate and dread And exultation, skied us overhead An atmosphere, whose lightning was the sword, Scathing the cedars of the world, drawn down In burnings, by the metal of a crown. Napoleon! Foemen, while they cursed that name, Napoleon! Sages with high foreheads droop'd, And this name brake the silence of the snows Yea! this, they shouted near the pyramidal Motion'd them back with stillness! Shouts as idle The world's face changed to hear it. Kingly men Napoleon! The cavernous vastitude The name which scatter'd in a ruining blare And Germany was 'ware and Italy For, verily, though Gaul augustly rose To wield a sword, or fit an undersized King's crown to a great man's head! And though along Her Paris streets, did float on frequent streams Napoleon! 'twas a high name lifted high! The kings crept out the people sate at home,— A deep gloom center'd in the deep repose- Nay! not so long! France kept her old affection, And England answers in the courtesy Because it was not well, it was not well, To bind and bare, and vex with vulture fell. Of a fall'n foe and exile! We return Orestes to Electra... in his urn! A little urna little dust inside, Of Paris, how the wild tears will run down, And run back in the chariot-marks of time, There, weapon spent and warrior spent may rest Napoleon! Once more the recover'd name Blood fell like dew beneath his sunrise-sooth! And if they ask'd for "rights," he made reply, He ruled them like a tyrant-true! but none I do not praise this man-the man was flaw'd, For Adam-much more, Christ!-his knee, unbent [had His hand, unclean-his aspiration, pent I think a nation's tears, pour'd thus together, The crown'd Napoleon or his senseless dust THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers! Ere the sorrow comes with years? mothers, They are leaning their young heads against their And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows, The young birds are chirping in the nest, The young fawns are playing in the shadows, The young flowers are blowing from the west; But the young, young children, O my brothers! They are weeping bitterly! They are weeping in the play time of the others, In the country of the free. Do you question the young children in their sorrow, The old man may weep for his to-morrow The old tree is leafless in the forest, The old year is ending in the frost; The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest, The old hope is hardest to be lost! But the young, young children, O my brothers! Do you ask them why they stand Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers, In our happy fatherland! They look up with their pale and sunken faces, And their looks are sad to see; For the man's grief untimely draws and presses Down the cheeks of infancy. "Your old earth," they say, "is very dreary;" Ask the old why they weep, and not the children, "True," say the young children, "it may happen That we die before our time! Little Alice died last year,—the grave is shapen We look'd into the pit prepared to take her, Alas, the young children! they are seeking Go out, children, from the mine and from the city, Laugh aloud to feel your fingers let them through! But the children say, "Are cowslips of the meadows Like the weeds anear the mine?* Leave us quiet in the dark of our coal shadows From your pleasures fair and fine. "For oh!" say the children, "we are weary, If we cared for any meadows, it were merely The reddest flowers would look as pale as snow; For all day, we drag our burden tiring, Through the coal-dark underground, Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iror In the factories round and round. "All day long the wheels are droning, turning, Their wind comes in our faces! [burning, Till our hearts turn, and our heads with pulses And the walls turn in their places! [ing, Turns the sky in the high window blank and reelTurns the long light that droopeth down the wall, Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling, Are all turning all the day, and we with all! All day long, the iron wheels are droning, And sometimes we could pray, O ye wheels (breaking off in a mad moaning,) Stop! be silent for to-day!" Ay, be silent let them hear each other breathing, For a moment, mouth to mouth; [wreathing Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh Of their tender human youth; Let them feel that this cold metallic motion Is not all the life God giveth them to feel; Let them prove their inward souls against the notion That they live in you, or under you, O wheels! Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, As if fate in each were stark ! [ward, And the children's souls, which God is calling sunSpin on blindly in the dark. Now tell the weary children, O my brothers! That they look to Him and pray, [us," For the bless'd One who blesseth all the others, Is it likely God with angels singing round Him, Two words, indeed, of praying we remember; * A commissioner mentions the fact of weeds being thus confounded with the idea of flowers. The report of the commissioners present repeated instances of children, whose religious devotion is confined to the repetition of the two first words of the Lord's Prayer. We say no other words except " Our Father !” And we think that, in some pause of angels' song, He may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather, And hold both in His right hand, which is strong. Our Father! If He heard us, He would surely— For they call Him good and mild— Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely, "Come and rest with me, my child." "But no," say the children, weeping faster, And they tell us, of His image is the master "Go to!" say the children; "up in Heaven, Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find! For God's possible is taught by His world's loving, They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory They know the grief of men, but not the wisdom, They sink in their despair, with hope at calm, Are slaves without liberty in Christdom, Are martyrs by the pang without the palm! Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly, They look up, with their pale and sunken faces, For you think you see their angels in their places, With eyes meant for Deity. "How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation! Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart? Trample down with mailed heel its palpitation, And tread onward to your throne amid the mart? Our blood splashes upward, O our tyrants! And your purple shows your path," But the child's sob curseth deeper in the silence Than the strong man in his wrath! SERAPH AND POET. THE seraph sings before the manifest God-one, and in the burning of the Seven; And with the full life of consummate heaven Heaving beneath him, like a mother's breast, Warm with her first-born's slumber in that nest: The poet sings upon the earth, grave-riven, Before the naughty world, soon self-forgiven For wronging him, and in the darkness prest From his own soul by worldly weights. Even so, Sing, seraph, with the glory! Heaven is high! Sing, poet, with the sorrow! Earth is low! The universe's inward voices cry "Amen" to either voice of joy and wo. Sing, poet, seraph-sing on equally. |