man who remained in the boat-the cry of "Robert Welden! is it you," burst in a shriek from his lips-and the next moment they were in each other's arms.

Robert and Rebecca had escaped. The tale of their death was an invention of Oliver Temple's father, to efface as he hoped effectually, the romantic dream of his son, that he

should ever obtain the sister.

"How providential it was that this young man and Lucy Perry did not fall in love," said the Governor to Mr. Johnson a few days after they had landed. "We may see by this how easy it is for the wisdom of man to be turned into foolishness. I thought I had laid a mighty prudent plan, but lo! I now see my folly. We must submit ourselves and all that we have to God. He will in his good providence order events for our best happiness."

When the fleet, that brought over the colonists, had all arrived safely, a day of thanksgiving was appointed. This was July 8th, 1630-and on that day of rejoicing Oliver Temple and Rebecca Welden were married.

This was the first wedding celebrated in the colony that laid the foundation of Boston. There was great joy and many congratulations, and none of the guests appeared more disposed to kindly feelings on the occasion than Mr. Zechariah Long. His suspicions were all removed, and he stood so erect that his superior altitude was never afterwards a matter of question.

"How beautifully every thing is ordered by providence," said the Governor,

E. B. C.

I SAW her in her youthful grace!
She seemed like one not born to die,
For hope was in her radiant face,
And rapture sparkled in her eye.

Her voice yet lingers in my ear,
Now warmly gushing, full and free,
Now gently flowing, calm and clear
As music on the silent sea.

How high her beautiful disdain

Would rise at some ungenerous deed!
How soon at sight of human pain

Her quick and tender heart would bleed.
The changes o'er her brow came fast
As colors on the seraph's wing;
Nor ever from her spirit passed
The glory of her opening spring.

I saw her when the robes of death

Were lightly folded round her form,
And leaned to hear some lingering breath,
To learn if still the heart were warm.
The morning light was o'er her spread,
And all was life-like in its glow;
As glistening in the eastern red
The frozen fountain seems to flow.

This is death's mercy-thus he throws
A living calm-a thoughtful shade-
A mournful beauty of repose

Round the dark ruin he hath made.
But when the snowy hand I pressed,
And felt the deep mysterious chill,
It flashed conviction to my breast,

And all my busy hopes were still.

I see her yet-she cannot die!

When evening brings the pensive hour, And day hath closed its weary eye

She comes upon my heart with power, And spreads through all my troubled breast The spirit of immortal dreams,

That gild the dreary hours of rest

And fleet not when the morning beams.

I see hear yet-I see her now
A tenant of the brightest sky

Where sorrow never clouds the brow
And tears are strangers to the eye,

I see her standing with the blest;
And now her heavenly years begin,
My weary heart retires to rest

And mourns not for what once has been. March, 1828.

MRS. HEMANS' POETRY.

If our journal had been in existence at the time of Mrs. Hemans' greatest popularity, we are not sure that we should have joined our voice to the general acclamation; not from want of admiration of her talents, but because it was evident to all who reflected on the subject, that such excitement was not of a kind to endure. Accordingly the tide has now turned a little; she is as deserving of applause as ever, but readers have grown weary of her unvaried excellence, and it is not in the nature of critics to persist in giving praise. We are glad therefore to take this opportunity to declare, that in our humble opinion, she keeps on steadily improving and the passing shade under which she labors, is owing to the public caprice, which, if it admires rapturously to-day, grows ashamed of its enthusiasm to-morrow.

:

This is no reproach to Mrs. Hemans; and before we condemn the public, we should ask if it is not perfectly natural. We admire the grand and beautiful scenes of nature, which she delights in representing; but they are not calculated to afford a source of interest that excludes every other they are intended to afford relief from care, to rest and exalt the mind for other exertions; and any one who retires to live in perpetual communion with nature, soon discovers that it cannot, of itself, always fill and employ the mind. Mrs. Hemans' writings have met us on leaves as numerous as those of the forest, and it is not to be expected that we should feel a constant excitement like that they first awakened. The interest however does not so much lessen, as change: the new star which stood out before the rest, ceases to be a wonder, but quietly takes its rank in the sky and since we may see the effect of this familiarity every day in common life, it seems strange, that when it operates on the fame of distinguished persons, it should occasion so much anger and dismay.

Mrs. Hemans has written much and this also has aided to produce the effect just mentioned. She must gain this command over her treasures like Aladdin, by means of her lamp but the natural effect of their abundance is to reduce their value. We know none of her writings which we would willingly spare: but unquestionably, had she written

less, her fame at this moment would have been greater, because the public are always louder in their demands for what is withheld, than in their gratitude for what is given. This misfortune she shares in common with Scott; but many years will not pass, before the distinction of old and new in their works will be forgotten, and their writings be considered as a whole; then their fame will no longer be affected by the chances of public feeling.

Something of Mrs. Hemans' loss of popularity is owing to her imitators, who have followed her in a procession that has not yet passed by. We do not accuse these worthies of imitating by design; such is generally their opinion of their own powers, that they would hardly pay that homage to Milton the resemblance is doubtless unconscious, and caused by their naturally falling in with the tone and manner they admire. But the peculiarities of a writer are much more easily copied than his genius: they have therefore given us her Lime and Chestnut groves without their solemn beauty; and her children, with nothing of the originals but their fair hair" and " sunny brow." We have been so often imposed upon with the counterfeit, that we suspect the merit of the true and we charge her with all the dullness of those who affected her manner without any of her inspiration.

We shall now take the liberty of giving our opinion of Mrs. Hemans' writings.

We are most surprised at her imagination. It is wonderfully active and fertile; and seems to gain in vigor by exercise, instead of being exhausted by repeated demands. abounds also in delicate and affecting sentiment; but the images are certainly the principal charm in her writings. We do not speak of figures meant for illustration, but of the scenes and pictures she continually brings before us. She takes some incident she has noted down in her various reading, and gathers round it a profusion of rich and appropriate images, all judiciously selected to heighten the force of the description. The "Song of the Curfew" is an instance of this it is a collection of pictures, each striking and beautiful, but all in perfect harmony, and so well blended as to produce a single and deep impression. Her answer to the question "Where slumber England's dead?" is another: in this, by a few happy words, the images of the many regions

in which the armies of England have fought, are brought at once before the mind, in a single magnificent view;-but the heart which thrills at the pictures of navies bearing their thunder to the utmost limit of the deep, is made thoughtful as it should be, by the sight of seas and deserts which have been covered with the dead-the seals of the nothingness of glory. Sometimes a simple excitement is thus brought in with great effect, as in the "Traveller at the source of the Nile:" but it will be found that the sentiment owes its effect not to its point or originality, but to the scene of weariness, distance, and solitude, which she brings at the same time before us. It may interest Americans to observe how she has brought all the power of her imagery to bear on the "Landing of the Pilgrims;" an event which apart from its interest to ourselves, is doubtless one of the most impressive recorded in the history of man. This facility of imagination sometimes leads astray; and though she has no great faults, we think the principal one in her writings may be traced to this. Every reader has probably been struck with an occasional brilliancy which did not seem in place: and which though she has very little except genius in common with Moore, sometimes reminds us of the more sparkling of his writings. As an instance of this, we may mention the "Wreck" where she describes the attitude of the dead with a gracefulness which is by no means in keeping with so wild and fearful a scene. This too is the reason why her longer pieces are far from being the most successful, particularly the "Siege of Valencia," in which the various pictures of a mother's agony and love, though always beautiful and natural in themselves, are painful almost to weariness, and as has happened in many other cases, the lighter pieces will float down the stream of time, when these are sunk beneath it. We prefer her enamel painting-but this we sometimes admire, like the crystal casing of the trees a few weeks ago-glad to see it once or twice no doubt, but having serious fears for the vegetation to which it clung.

We know not that we could find any other considerable fault in Mrs. Hemans' if we were so disposed; but it is a much easier and pleasanter employment to point out her merits; and these are not a few. We are most of all disposed to praise the moral character of her writings. We could not of course expect to find her page stained like many