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I wish not it was mine to wear
Flushed honour's sunny crown
She frowns, and let her frown.
Which others love to find :
A poor and quiet mind.
The trumpet's taunt in battle field,
The great man's pedigree,What peace can all their honours yield ?
And what are they to me?
Rave like a mighty wind;
A still and quiet mind ?
I mourn not that my lot is low,
I wish no higher state;
Nor tease her to be great.
What all at last shall find,
If that's a quiet mind.
I see the world pass heedless by,
And pride above me tower; It costs me not a single sigh
For either wealth or power;
Of quite as great a kind,
A calm and quiet mind.
When friends depart, as part they must,
And love's true joys decay,
Which whirlwinds puff away:
Though left the last behind,
If I've a quiet mind.
THE POET AND HER POETRY.
(MRS. HEMANS was born in Duke Street, Liverpool, in the year 1793. Her father was a native of Ireland; her maiden name was Browne, and at an early age, she was married to Mr. Hemans, an officer in the army. This marriage was unhappy; she was estranged from her husband, and lived many years in retirement, enlivened principally by the correspondence of the most celebrated literary characters. She first lived at St. Asaph, in Wales; three years at Wavertree, near Liverpool, and latterly at Dublin; where she died on Saturday night, the 16th of May, 1835, aged 41.
Mrs. Hemans may be well stiled the “Poet of the Affections." She may not have possessed the graphic power of depicting scenes of common life, displayed by some, nor the lofty imaginations of others; but as to the feelings and the affections of our nature, none tuned the lyre more exquisitely. In all that relates to woman, her suffering, her constancy, her love, she is perhaps the first of female poets, and what enhances her writings to us, is, that both in subject and in style, they are purely English, English in their sentiments, feelings and affections. Towards the latter end of her life, Mrs. Hemans became still more deeply embued with true religious feeling, and a sweet sonnet written a few days before her death, shows that she possessed that calm and halcyon peace of mind, which is imparted alone, by the blessed hope of immortality.]
EXTRACTS FROM MRS. HEMANS'S WORKS.
BIRDS OF PASSAGE.
Birds, joyous birds of the wandering wing!
“We have swept o'er the cities, in song renown'd, -
And what have ye found in the monarch's dome,
Oh, joyous birds, it hath still been so !
“A change we have found there, and many a change!
Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth,
THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP.
What hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells?,
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main ! Pale glist’ning pearls, and rainbow-colour'd shells,
Bright things which gleam unreck'd of, and in vain, Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!
We ask not such from thee.
Yet more, the depths have more! What wealth untold,
Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies!
Won from ten thousand royal Argosies.
Earth claims not these again!
Above the cities of a world gone by! Sand hath filled up the palaces of old,
Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry ! Dash o'er them, Ocean! in thy scornful play,
Man yields them to decay !
Yet more! the billows and the depths have more !
High hearts and brave are gather'd to thy breast; They hear not now the booming waters roar,
The battle thunders will not break their rest. Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave !
Give back the true and brave !
Give back the lost and lovely! Those for whom
The place was kept at board and hearth so long; The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom,
And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown,
But all is not thine own!
To thee the love of woman hath gone down;
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,
Yet must thou hear a voice-Restore the dead !
Restore the Dead, thou Sea!
THE BETTER LAND.
“I hear thee speak of the better land,
"Not there, not there, my child !"
"Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
“ Is it far away, in some region old,
"Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
It is there, it is there, my child !"
THE RETURN TO POETRY.
Once more the eternal melodies from far,