I thought they twined around my heart
So close, that we could never part;
But Reason, like a winter's day,
Nipp'd childhood's visions all away,
Nor left behind one withering flower
To cherish in a lonely hour.

Memory may yet the themes repeat,
But childhood's heart hath ceased to beat
At tales, which Reason's sterner lore
Turns like weak gossips from her door:
The magic fountain, where the head
Rose up, just as the startled maid
Was stooping from the weedy brink
To dip her pitcher in to drink,
That did its half-hid mystery tell
To smooth its hair, and use it well;
Which, doing as it bade her do,
Turn'd to a king and lover too.
The tale of Cinderella, told

The winter through, and never old:
The pumpkin that, at her approach,
Was turn'd into a golden coach;
The rats that fairies' magic knew,
And instantly to horses grew;
The coachmen ready at her call,
To drive her to the prince's ball,
With fur-changed jackets silver lined,
And tails hung 'neath their hats behind;
The golden glove, with fingers small,
She lost while dancing in the hall,

That was on every finger tried,
And fitted hers, and none beside,
When Cinderella, soon as seen,

Was woo'd and won, and made a Queen.
The boy that did the giant slay,
And gave his mother's cows away
For magic mask, that day or night,
When on, would keep him out of sight.
The running bean-not such as weaves
Round poles the height of cottage eaves,
But magic one-that travell'd high
Some steeple's journey up the sky,
And reach'd a giant's dwelling there,
A cloud-built castle in the air:
Where, venturing up the fearful height,
That served him climbing half the night,

CLARE.

He search'd the giant's coffers o'er,
And never wanted riches more;
While, like a lion scenting food,
The giant roar'd, in hungry mood,
A storm of threats that might suffice
To freeze the hottest blood to ice.

I hear it now,

nor dream of woes;

The storm is settled to repose.

Those fears are dead!-What will not die
In fading life's mortality?

Those truths have fled, and left behind
A real world and doubting mind.

From January-Shepherd's Calendar.

DEPARTURE OF WINTER.

Often, at early seasons, mild and fair
March bids farewell, with garlands in her hair
Of hazel tassels, woodbine's bushy sprout,
And sloe and wild-plum blossoms peeping out
In thick-set knots of flowers, preparing gay,

For April's reign, a mockery of May.

The old dame then oft stills her humming wheel-
When the bright sun-beams through the windows steal
And gleam upon her face, and dancing fall

In diamond shadows on the pictured wall;
While the white butterfly, as in amaze,
Will settle on the glossy glass to gaze-
And smiling, glad to see such things once more,
Up she will get and totter to the door,
And look the trees beneath the eaves-
upon
Sweetbriar and lad's-love-swelling into leaves;
And, stooping down, cull from her garden beds
The early blossoms perking out their heads,
In flower-pots on the window-board to stand,
Where the old hour-glass spins its thread of sand.
And while the passing clown remarks, with pride,
66 cock's stride,"
Days lengthen in their visits a
She cleans her candlesticks and sets them by,
Glad of the make-shift light that eves supply!

POESY.

Oh! I have been thy lover long,
Soul-soothing Poesy;

If 'twas not thou inspired the song,
I still owe much to thee:
And still I feel the cheering balm
Thy heavenly smiles supply,
That keeps my struggling bosom calm
When life's rude storms are high.

Oh! in that sweet romance of life
I loved thee, when a boy,
And ever felt thy gentle strife
Awake each little joy:

To thee was urged each nameless song,
Soul-soothing Poesy;

And as my hopes wax'd warm and strong,
My love was more for thee.

"Twas thou and nature bound, and smiled,
Rude garlands round my brow-

Those dreams that pleased me when a child,
Those hopes that warm me now.
Each year with brighter blooms return'd,
Gay visions danced along,

And, at the sight, my bosom burn'd,

And kindled into song.

Springs came not, as they yearly come
To low and vulgar eyes,

With here and there a flower in bloom,
Green trees, and brighter skies:

Thy fancies flush'd my boyish sight,

And gilt its earliest hours;

And Spring came wrapt in beauty's light,

An angel dropping flowers.

Oh! I have been thy lover long,

Soul-soothing Poesy,

And sung to thee each simple song,

With witching ecstacy,

Of flowers, and things that c aim'd from thee

Of life an equal share,

And whisper'd soft their tales to me

Of pleasure or of care.

CLARE.

With thee, life's errand all perform,

And feel its joy and pain;

Flowers shrink, like me, from blighting storm, And hope for suns again:

The bladed grass, the flower,

Companions seem to be,

the leaf,

That tell their joys of joy and grief,
And think and feel with me.

A spirit speaks in every wind,
And gives the storm its wings;
With thee all nature owns a mind,
And stones are living things;
The simplest weed the Summer gives
Smiles on her as a mother,

And, through the little day it lives,
Owns sister, friend, and brother.

Oh! Poesy, thou heavenly flower,
Though mine a weed may be,
Life feels a sympathising power,
And wakes inspired with thee;
Thy glowing soul's enraptured dreams
To all a beauty give,

While thy impassion'd warmth esteems
The meanest things that live.

Objects of water, earth, or air,
Are pleasing to thy sight;
All live thy sunny smiles to share,
Increasing thy delight;

All nature in thy presence lives

With new creative claims,

And life to all thy fancy gives

That were but shades and names.

Though cheering praise and cold disdain
My humble songs have met,

To visit thee I can't refrain,

Or cease to know thee yet;

Though simple weeds are all I bring,
Soul-soothing Poesy,

They share the sunny smiles of Spring,
Nor are they scorn'd by thee.

THIS highly distinguished authoress in an age of illustrious women, was born at Liverpool, in 1794. Her maiden name was Felicia Dorothea Brown. Her father was a native of Ireland, and her mother of Germany, but descended of Venetian ancestry, and to this latter circumstance Mrs. Hemans sometimes playfully referred, as the source of her enthusiasm for poetry and romance. She married at an early age, and became the mother of five sons; but the union was not a happy one, and a voluntary separation from her husband was the consequence.

Mrs. Hemans, from a very early period of her life, had been an indefatigable scholar; her mind was richly stored with classical images and associations, and a thorough knowledge of the principles of taste. On this account, her earliest compositions exhibited a devotedness to what might be called the Classical School, in which it was thought by her critical friends that she sacrificed too much to fastidiousness of selection, and uniformity and correctness of rhythm and style. But in consequence of her subsequent enthusiasm for Spanish and German literature, and her admiration of the writings of Wordsworth, a change was perceptible in the spirit of her poetry and the style of her versification, the one exhibiting more originality, energy, and freedom, and the other, less polish and studied richness. Thus her Modern Greece, Wallace, Dartmore, Sceptic, Historic Scenes, and subsequent productions, up to the publication of The Forest Sanctuary, evince an exclusive devotedness to classical models, while the lastmentioned work, The Records of Women, Scenes and Hymns of Life, and all her following poems, show the superinduced spirit which she had imbibed from the great masters of Spain and Germany.

As Mrs. Hemans had been distinguished for early application to study, and precociousness of intellectual powers, her career of authorship commenced at the age of thirteen, after which the rich treasures of her genius were showered upon the public with a liberality and constancy that seemed to preclude the necessary efforts of careful study and correction. But a single glance at any of her numerous works would at once preclude this suspicion. Stored though her mind was with the knowledge of ancient and modern languages, and information derived from extensive reading and habits of observation, her writings exhibited only a part of these distinguished acquirements. It was not enough that she knew the subject upon which she wished to exercise her pen: she required also that inspiration which can only arise from the love of it, and thus every theme which she treated became impressed with the characteristics of her own mind, and was the outpouring of her own individual emotions. And who that considers the felicity of her expressions, and rich music of her numbers, would imagine that these could have been the fruits of haste or carelessness?

In consequence of the talents which Mrs. Hemans had indicated in her numerous productions, the most distinguished literary characters of the day sought her acquaintanceship, among whom occur the dissimilar names of Bishop Heber, Shelley, and Sir Walter Scott. A whole host of imitators also started up, not only in England, but America, who, without her genius and endowments, endeavoured to imitate her singularly beautiful style of writing—and we need scarcely add, without success. But notwithstanding her great and continually growing celebrity, no lady, however obscure, and diffident of her own merits, could have been more retired in society. In company, she was reserved and silent, shunning the honours which were courting her acceptance, as well as those opportunities of procuring admiration by the display of her conversational powers, with which she was so eminently endowed. So great was her sensitiveness upon this point, that she never would visit London after her name had acquired the highest celebrity, but preferred the seclusion of her obscure residence at St. Asaph's, in North Wales, or the neighbourhood of Liverpool. During the latter years of her life, she had suffered much from a delicate state of health; and she died in Dublin, on the 16th of May, 1835, tranquillized and cheered in her last moments by those devotional principles which breathe such a celestial spirit over the charms of her poetry.