MRS. NORTON. THE POET AND HER POETRY. [CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH NORTON, is the grand-daughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, and is said to have written poetry at a very early age. "The Sorrows of Rosalie," was composed at the age of seventeen, but not published for some time afterwards; this was followed by the "Undying One," founded on the superstition of the wandering Jew, which increased her poetical reputation. There is a majestic sweetness in the verse of this poetess which exalts the feelings while it thrills through the deeper clouds of the spirit. It is impossible to read her poetry without being deeply penetrated with the striking images which it embodies, or without being warmed by the ardour of her descriptions. At times the intensity of Byron seems to dwell for a moment on her pen, passing off like the anger from an infant's brow, "in drops of gentle moisture." Her words are often as the dark sayings of the Pythoness, and would make us tremble at their import, yet again sweet as the benedictions of hovering angels; thus she is equally able to arouse or to soothe, and indeed few of the poetic order have a greater power over the feelings than Mrs. Norton.] EXTRACT FROM MRS. NORTON. THE CHILD OF EARTH. Fainter her slow step falls from day to day, Make the warm air such luxury to breathe ; Not while bright flowers around my footsteps wreathe. The spring hath ripened into summer time; The season's viewless boundary is past; With silent steps, the Lord of light moves on; Greets my dull ear with music in its tone! Pale sickness dims my eye and clouds my brow; I am content to die,-but, oh! not now!" Summer is gone: and autumn's soberer hues " Slant through the fading trees with ruddy gleam! Cooler the breezes play around my brow; I am content to die,-but, oh! not now!" The bleak wind whistles: snow-showers, far and near, The spring is come again-the joyful spring! The child of earth is numbered with the dead! "Thee never more the sunshine shall awake, Beaming all redly through the lattice-pane; LÆTITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. THE POET AND HER POETRY. She is [LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON, was born in Hans Place, London. of the old Herefordshire family, of Tedstone-Delamere. Her father was, originally, intended for the navy; and sailed his first voyage as a midshipman. with his relative, Admiral Bowyer: he afterwards became a partner with Mr. Adair, the well-known army agent, but died while his daughter was very young. Miss Landon has been nearly all her life a resident in London; her poetry, therefore, dwells more upon human passions, desires, and enjoyments, the themes and persons that history has rendered sacred, the glorious chivalries of by-gone ages, and the ruins of nations,-than upon the gentler topics, objects, and characters which those who live in the country cherish, venerate, and love.] EXTRACT FROM MISS LANDON. LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. Come back, come back together, By the haunted hours before! Come back, come back, my childhood; From the green leaves of the wild wood, For Red Riding Hood, the darling,- The fields were covered over Below her footsteps bent, Summer shed its shining store, She was happy as she prest them Beneath her little feet; She pluck'd them and caress'd them,- They had never seemed so sweet before, How the heart of childhood dances It has its own romances And a wide, wide world have they! Do such pleasant fancies spring MARY ANN BROWNE. THE POET AND HER POETRY. [THIS young Poetess, was born September 24, 1812, near Maidenhead, and her father being a gentleman of independent property, was enabled to devote his time to her early instruction. She never went to school, but for a few weeks, and was therefore, never "knowledge crammed," nor had the misfortune to have her mind cramped, and energies repressed, by pedagogue interference. Mr. Browne had a refined taste for poetry, and thus his daughter's mind, was from its earliest period, imbued with a love of whatever was good or beautiful in the poetry of her own country. Poetic genius thus developed itself freely, and at so early an age as that of six years, Miss Browne made attempts in verse" even before she could write, having copied the words and letters in printing from an old Prayer book." She wrote several pieces before she was nine, and when only ten, part of a tragedy. Her first volume, "Mont Blanc," was published In 1827, before she was fifteen, since which period, she has published several other volumes which have been well received by the public, and have completely established her reputation, as no ordinary female writer. Miss Browne's poetry, by no means partakes of that maudling sentimentality which distinguishes the poetry of many modern female writers, but has always about it the general stamp of true and original feeling, and exhibits the most felicitous touches of simple pathos, clothed in the pure and delicate imagery of a holy and consecrated mind. Every touch of her pen adds a grace to thought, and every expression confers an additional charm on language, while the general tone of her productions, is calculated to exalt the understanding, and to purify the affections from their earthly dross. There does not exist a modern female poetic writer, whose lyre has been more sweetly tuned, or whose compositions glow more resplendently with those "glorious attributes of woman," which seem to speak her the "connecting link," between man and angels.] EXTRACTS FROM MARY ANN BROWNE. BEAUTY. Spirit of Beauty! say, where is thy dwelling? By the bright waters of the fountain's welling, And what art thou? Thou tint'st the rose, and breathest Thy soul of sweetness 'midst its crimson folds; And in its dropping curves the ivy wreathest, |