"Why is the word traheret used, which, as employed elsewhere. would imply the taking away of Helen against her will? Does it refer to one version of the story according to which Paris did bear her away by force? Were this the case, one would naturally expect, considering the reproachful and denunciatory character of the ode, to find that idea brought out more distinctly. Is it intended to express the reluctance with which, though yielding to her love for Paris, she left her husband and her home? This conception is too refined for an ancient poet to trust to its being made apparent by so light a touch, if indeed we may suppose it to have entered his mind. Was traheret then intended, by its associations with an act of violence, to denote the rapidity and fear of the flight of Paris? Or was it merely employed abusively, to use a technical term, only with reference to a part of its signification, as words are not unfrequently used in poetry, though it is always an imperfection?

"Such cases are very numerous, in which no modern reader can pronounce with just confidence upon the character of the poetical language of the ancients. Instances are frequently occurring in which, if we admire at all, we must admire at second hand, upon trust. The meaning and effect of words have undergone changes which it is of ten not easy, and often not possible, to ascertain with precision. Even in our own language this is the case. Shakspeare says,

Nor Heaven peep through the blanket of the dark
To cry, Hold! Hold!"

"Here Johnson understands him as presenting the ludicrous conception of the ministers of vengeance peeping through a blanket ;' and Coleridge, as we see by his Table-Talk, conjectured that instead of blanket, blank height' was perhaps written by Shakspeare. But by Heaven' we conceive to be meant not the ministers of vengeance, but the lights of heaven; and it is not unpoetical to speak of the noon and stars as peeping through clouds. With the word 'blanket,' our associations are trivial and low; but understand it merely as denoting a thick covering of darkness which closely enwraps the lights of heaven, and it suits well to its place. But our associations with the word are accidental, there is nothing intrinsically more mean in a blanket than a sheet, yet none would object to the expression of "a sheet of light.' The fortunes of the words only have been different, and that, in all probability, since the time of Shakspeare, considering his use of this word, and the corresponding use of the word rug by Drayton.*

"If such be the character of poetical language, it is clear that to judge with critical accuracy of that of a distant age or even a foreign land, requires uncommon knowledge and discrimination, as well as an accurate taste; while, unfortunately, profound scholarship and cultivated and elegant habits of mind, have very rarely been united in the study of the ancient poets. The supposition of a peculiar felicity of expression in their writings is to be judged of, in most cases, rather by extrinsic probabilities, which do not favor it, than by any direct and clear evidence of it that can be produced. We are very liable in this particular to be biassed by prepossession and authority; our imaginations often deceive us; we create the beauty which we fancy that we find.

"There is perhaps no poet, in whose productions the characteristics of which we have spoken as giving a superiority to the poety of later times over that which has preceded, appear more strikingly than in those of Mrs. Hemans. When, after reading such works as she has written, we turn over the volumes of a collection of English poetry, like that of Chalmers, we cannot but perceive that the greater

See examples, in the notes to Shakspeare.

JUVENILE POEMS.

555

part of it appears more worthless and distasteful than before. Much is evidently the work of barren and unformed, vulgar and vicious minds, of individuals without any conception of poetry as the glowing expression of what is most noble in our nature, and often with no title to the name of poet, but from having put into metre thoughts toc mean for prose. Such writings as those of Mrs. Hemans at once afford evidence of the advance of our race, and are among the most important means of its further purification and progress. The minds, which go forth from their privacy to act with strong moral power upon thousands and ten thousands of other minds, are the real agents in advancing the character of man, and improving his condition. They are instruments of the invisible operations of the Spirit of God." -From the Christian Examiner of January, 1836.

SELECTIONS FROM JUVENILE PC EMS.

[In this collected edition of the various writings of Mrs. Hemans, chronological arrangement has been adhered to, in so far as any useful purpose has been attained by it; and, when departed from, it has only been to a small extent, and that for the purpose of giving to each volume a greater degree of variety.

In a very general point of view, the intellectual career of Mrs. Hemans may be divided, as we have already hinted, into two separate eras,--the first of which may be termed the classical, and comprehends the productions of her pen, from "the Restoration of the works of Art to Italy" and "Modern Greece," down to the "Historic Scenes" and the "Translations from Camoens,"-and the last the romantic, which commences with the "Forest Sanctuary," and includes "Records of Woman," together with nearly all her later efforts.

In point of poetical merit, there can be little doubt that the last section far transcends the first, and forms the groundwork-whether we regard conception or execution-on which her peculiar fame will be tested by posterity. The former series of poems, however, must be always reckoned valuable, not only in themselves as compositions, but as showing the progress of an intrinsically poetical mind towards its maturity.

But as noonday has its morning, so even these were only the blossoms from antecedent buds; and, as matter of literary curiosity, we have appended a selection from Mrs. Hemans's really juvenile efforts, sufficient to show the first expansions of that genius, which time and exertion afterwards ripened into "the bright consummate flower." Even after the early poetical attempts of Cowley and Pope, of Chatterton, Kirke White, and Byron, some of the following outpourings of poetical sentiment may be read with no common interest.]

JUVENILE POEMS,

BY FELICIA DOROTHEA BROWNE.

From a Volume of Poems by FELICIA DOROTHEA BROWNE, published in 1808, containing Pieces written between the ages of eight and thirteen.

ON MY MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF EIGHT.

CLAD in all their brightest green,
This day the verdant fields are seen,

The tuneful birds begin their lay,
To celebrate thy natal day.

The breeze is still, the sea is calm,
And the whole scene combines to charm;
The flowers revive, this charming May
Because it is thy natal day.

The sky is blue, the day serene,
And only pleasure now is seen;
The rose, the pink, the tulip gay,
Combine to bless thy natal day.

A PRAYER.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF NINE.

OH! God, my Father and my Friend,
Ever thy blessing to me send;
Let me have Virtue for my guide,
And Wisdom always at my side;
Thus cheerfully through life I'll go,
Nor ever feel the sting of woe
Contented with the humblest lot,
Happy, though in the meanest cot.

ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN.

THE infant muse, Jehovah! would aspire
To swell the adoration of the lyre:

Source of all good, oh! teach my voice to sing
Thee, from whom Nature's genuine beauties spring;
Thee, God of truth, omnipotent and wise,

Who saidst to Chaos, "let the earth arise."

Oh! author of the rich luxuriant year,

Love, Truth, and Mercy, in thy works appear:
Within their orbs the planets dost Thou keep,
And e'en hast limited the mighty deep.
Oh! could I number thy inspiring ways,
And wake the voice of animated praise!
Ah, no! the theme shall swell a cherub's note;
To Thee celestial hymns of rapture float.
"Tis not for me, in lowly strains to sing
Thee, God of mercy, heaven's immortal King.
Yet to that happiness I'd fain aspire;
Oh! fill my heart with elevated fire;
With angel-songs an artless voice shall blend,
The grateful offering shall to Thee ascend.
Yes! Thou wilt breathe a spirit o'er my lyre,
And "fill my beating heart with sacred fire !"

JUVENILE POEMS.

And when to Thee my youth, my life, I've given,
Raise me, to join Eliza,* blest in Heaven.

SONNET TO MY MOTHER.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF TWELVE.

To thee maternal guardian of my youth,
pour the genuine numbers free from art;
The lays inspired by gratitude and truth,
For thou wilt prize the effusion of the heart
Oh! be it mine, with sweet and pious care,
To calm thy bosoin in the hour of grief;
With soothing tenderness to chase the tear,
With fond endearments to impart relief.
Be mine thy warm affection to repay

With duteous love in thy declining hours;
My filial hand shall strew unfading flowers,
Perennial roses to adorn thy way;

Still may thy grateful children round thee smile,
Their pleasing care affliction shall beguile.

SONNET.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN.

"TIS sweet to think the spirits of the blest
May hover round the virtuous man's repose:

And oft in visions animate his breast,

And scenes of bright beatitude disclose.
The ministers of Heaven with pure control,
May bid his sorrow and emotion cease,
Inspire the pious fervor of his soul,

And whisper to his bosom hallow'd peace.
Ah! tender thought, that oft with sweet relief
May charm the bosom of a weeping friend,
Beguile with magic power the tear of grief,
And pensive pleasure with devotion bler. ;
While oft he fancies music, sweetly faint,
The airy lay of some departed saint.

RURAL WALKS.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIREN.

OH! may I ever pass my happy hours
In Cambrian valleys and romantic bowers;
For every spot in sylvan beauty drest,

And every landscape charms my youthful breast.

* A sister whom the author had lost.

557

And much I love to hail the vernal morn,
When flowers of spring the mossy seat adorn;
And sometimes through the lonely wood I stray,
To cull the tender rosebuds in my way;
And seek in every wild secluded dell,
The weeping cowslip and the azure bell;
With all the blossoms, fairer in the dew,
To form the gay festoon of varied hue.
And oft I seek the cultivated green,
The fertile meadow, and the village scene;
Where rosy children sport around the cot,
Or gather woodbine from the garden spot.
And there I wander by the cheerful rill,
That murmurs near the osiers and the mill;
To view the smiling peasants turn the hay,
And listen to their pleasing festive lay.
I love to loiter in the spreading grove,
Or in the mountain scenery to rove;
Where summits rise in awful grace around,
With hoary moss and tufted verdure crown'd;
Where cliffs in solemn majesty are piled,
"And frown upon the vale" with grandeur wild:
And there I view the mouldering tower sublime,
Array'd in all the blending shades of Time.

The airy upland and the woodland green,
The valley, and romantic mountain scene;
The lowly hermitage, or fair domain,
The dell retired, or willow-shaded lane;
"And every spot in sylvan beauty drest,

And every landscape, charms my youthful breast."

SONNET.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN.

I LOVE to hail the mild and balmy hour,

When evening spreads around her twilight veil; When dews descend on every languid flower, And sweet and tranquil is the summer gale. Then let me wander by the peaceful tide, While o'er the wave the breezes lightly play; To hear the waters murmur as they glide, To mark the fading smile of closing day. There let me linger, blest in visions dear, Till the soft moonbeams tremble on the seas; While melting sounds decay on fancy's ear, Of airy music floating on the breeze. For still when evening sheds the genial dews, That pensive hour is sacred to the muse.