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(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.]



Fainter her slow step falls from day to day,

Death's hand is heavy on her darkening brow;
Yet doth she fondly cling to earth, and say,

“I am content to die,--but, oh! not now!
Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring

Make the warm air such luxury to breathe ;
Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing;

Not while bright flowers around my footsteps wreathe.
Spare me, great God! lift up my drooping brow;
I am content to die,--but, oh! not now !"

The spring hath ripened into summer time;

The season's viewless boundary is past;
The glorious sun hath reached his burning prime :

Oh! must this glimpse of beauty be the last ? “Let me not perish while o'er land and lea,

With silent steps, the Lord of light moves on; Not while the murmur of the mountain-bee

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

Tint the ripe fruits, and gild the waving corn; The huntsman swift the flying game pursues,

Shouts the halloo ! and winds his eager horn. “Spare me awhile, to wander forth and gaze

On the broad meadows, and the quiet stream, To watch in silence while the evening rays

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,

Drift without echo to the whitening ground; Autumn hath passed away, and, cold and drear,

Winter stalks on with frozen mantle bound : Yet still that prayer ascends. “Oh! laughingly

My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd, Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, and high,

And the roof rings with voices light and loud:
Spare me awhile ! raise up my drooping brow!
I am content to die,-but, oh! not now!"

The spring is come again—the joyful spring!

Again the banks with clustering flowers are spread; The wild bird dips upon its wanton wing :

The child of earth is numbered with the dead ! “Thee never more the sunshine shall awake,

Beaming all redly through the lattice-pane;
The steps of friends thy slumbers may not break,

Nor fond familiar voice arouse again!
Death's silent shadow veils thy darkened brow;
Why didst thou linger?--thou art happier now !"



(LÆTITIA ELIZABETA LANDON, was born in Hans Place, London. She is 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.]



Come back, come back together,

All ye fancies of the past,
Ye days of April weather,
Ye shadows that are cast

By the haunted hours before !
Come back, come back, my childhood ;

Thou art summoned by a spell
From the green leaves of the wild wood,

From beside the charmed well !
For Red Riding Hood, the darling, -

The flower of fairy lore.

The fields were covered over

With colours as she went;
Daisy, buttercup, and clover,

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 were so very sweet,

They had never seemed so sweet before,
To Red Riding Hood, the darling,

The flower of fairy lore.
How the heart of childhood dances

Upon a sunny day!
It has its own romances
And a wide, wide world have they !

A world where phantasie is king,
Made all of eager dreaming,

When once grown up and tall; Now is the time for scheming, Then we shall do them all;

Do such pleasant fancies spring For Red Riding Hood the darling,–

The flower of fairy lore?
She seems like an ideal love,

The poetry of childhood shown,
And yet loved with a real love,
As if she were our own;

A younger sister for the heart !
Like the woodland pheasant,

Her hair is brown and bright;
And her smile is pleasant,
With its rosy light.

Never can the memory part
With Red Riding Hood, the darling,

The flower of fairy lore.
Did the painter dreaming,

In a morning hour, Catch the fairy seeming Of this fairy flower ?

Winning it with eager eyes,
From the old enchantied stories,

Lingering with a long delight,
On the unforgotten glories
Of the infant sight?

Giving us a sweet surprise
In Red Riding Hood, the darling ---

The flower of fairy lore?



[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.]



Spirit of Beauty! say, where is thy dwelling?

Art thou an habitant of earth or sea,--
By the bright waters of the fountain's welling,

Or in the forest liv'st thou solemnly;
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,

And cast'st the violets in their fairy moulds,

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