Casting their dappled shadows at my feet; I will be grateful for that simple boon,

In many a thoughtful verse and anthem sweet, And bless thy dainty face whene'er we meet.

In the Gem, a literary annual for 1829, Mr Hood published a ballad entitled The Dream of Eugene Aram, which is also remarkable for its exhibition of the secrets of the human heart, and its deep and powerful moral feeling. It is perhaps to be regretted that an author who had undoubted command of the higher passions and emotions, should so seldom have frequented this sacred ground, but have preferred the gaieties of mirth and fancy. He probably saw that his originality was more apparent in the latter, and that popularity was in this way more easily attained. Immediate success was of importance to him; and until the position of literary men be rendered more secure and unassailable, we must often be content to lose works which can only be the ripened

fruits of wise delay.'

The following is one of Hood's most popular effusions in that style which the public identified as peculiarly his own :

A Parental Ode to my Son, aged Three Years and Five

Months.

Thou happy, happy elf!

(But stop-first let me kiss away that tear)

Thou tiny image of myself!

(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!)
Thou merry, laughing sprite !
With spirits feather-light,

Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin,
(Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin !)

Thou little tricksy Puck!

With antic toys so funnily bestuck,

Light as the singing bird that wings the air,

(The door! the door! he 'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire!

(Why, Jane, he 'll set his pinafore afire !)

Thou imp of mirth and joy!

In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents (Drat the boy!
There goes my ink !)

Thou cherub-but of earth;
Fit playfellow for fays by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,

(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!)
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble-that's his precious nose!)
Thy father's pride and hope!
(He 'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)
With pure heart newly stamped from Nature's mint,
(Where did he learn that squint ?)

Toss the light ball-bestride the stick, (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk With many a lamb-like frisk, (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) Thou pretty opening rose!

(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy, and breathing music like the south, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove, (I'll tell you what, my love,

I cannot write, unless he 's sent above!)

The Song of the Shirt.

With fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread.
Stitch-stitch-stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt;
And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch,
She sang the 'Song of the Shirt!'

'Work-work-work!

While the cock is crowing aloof! And work-work-work!

Till the stars shine through the roof! It's oh! to be a slave, Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work!

'Work-work-work!

Till the brain begins to swim ; Work-work-work!

Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream!

men, with sisters dear!

O men, with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out! But human creatures' lives! Stitch-stitch-stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt; Sewing at once, with a double thread, A shroud as well as a shirt.

'But why do I talk of Death?
That phantom of grisly bone;
I hardly fear its terrible shape,
It seems so like my own.

It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep;

O God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

'Work-work-work!

My labour never flags;

And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread, and rags.

That shattered roof-and this naked floorA table-a broken chair;

And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!

'Work-work-work!

From weary chime to chime, Work-work-work

As prisoners work for crime!

Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band,

Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand.

"Work-work-work!

In the dull December light,
And work-work-work!

When the weather is warm and bright-
While underneath the eaves
The brooding swallows cling,
As if to shew me their sunny backs,
And twit me with the spring.

'Oh, but to breathe the breath

Of the cowslip and primrose sweetWith the sky above my head,

And the grass beneath my feet;
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want,
And the walk that costs a meal!

'Oh, but for one short hour!

A respite however brief!

No blessed leisure for love or hope,
But only time for grief!

A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed

My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread.'

With fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,

A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread.
Stitch-stitch-stitch !

In poverty, hunger, and dirt;

And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch-
Would that its tone could reach the rich!-
She sang this 'Song of the Shirt!'

The following stanzas possess a sad yet sweet reality of tone and imagery:

The Death-bed.

We watched her breathing through the night,
Her breathing soft and low,

As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seemed to speak,

So slowly moved about,

As we had lent her half our powers
To eke her living out.

Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied-

We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed-she had

Another morn than ours.

Hood's works have been collected into four volumes: Poems of Wit and Humour; Hood's Own, or Laughter from Year to Year; and Whims and Oddities in Prose and Verse.

A son of Mr Hood's (commonly termed TOM HOOD) was also a professional littérateur, author of several novels, books for children, and other works: he was also editor of a comic periodical, Fun. He died in 1874, aged 39.

DAVID MACBETH MOIR.

Under the signature of the Greek letter Delta, DAVID MACBETH MOIR (1798 1851) was a large poetical contributor to Blackwood's Magazine. His best pieces are grave and tender, but he also wrote some lively jeux d'esprit, and a humorous Scottish tale, The Autobiography of Mansie Wauch, which was published in one volume, in 1828. His other works are-The Legend of Genevieve, with other Tales and Poems, 1824; Outlines of the Ancient History of Medicine, 1831; Domestic Verses, 1843; and Sketches of the Poetical Literature of the Past Half-century, 1851. His Poetical Works, edited by Thomas Aird—who prefixed to the collection an excellent memoir of the poetwere published in two volumes in 1852. Mr Moir practised as a surgeon in his native town of Musselburgh, beloved by all who knew him. Of his poetry, Mr Aird says: In Delta's earlier strains there are generally fancy, and feeling, and musical rhythm, but not much thought. His love of poetry, however, never suffered abatement, and as "a maker," he was improving to the very last. To unfaded freshness of heart he was adding riper thought such was one of the prime blessings of his pure nature and life. Reserve and patience were what he wanted, in order to be a greater name in song than he is.'

When Thou at Eve art Roaming.

I.

When thou at eve art roaming

Along the elm-o'ershadowed walk, Where fast the eddying stream is foaming,

And falling down-a cataract,

'Twas there with thee I wont to talk; Think thou upon the days gone by, And heave a sigh.

II.

When sails the moon above the mountains,
And cloudless skies are purely blue,
And sparkle in her light the fountains,
And darker frowns the lonely yew,
Then be thou melancholy too,
While pausing on the hours I proved
With thee beloved.

III.

When wakes the dawn upon thy dwelling,
And lingering shadows disappear,

As soft the woodland songs are swelling
A choral anthem on thine ear,
Muse, for that hour to thought is dear,
And then its flight remembrance wings
To bypast things.

IV.

To me, through every season, dearest ;
In every scene, by day, by night,
Thou, present to my mind appearest
A quenchless star, for ever bright;
My solitary, sole delight;
Where'er I am, by shore-at sea-
I think of thee!

REV. JOHN MOULTRIE. Associated with Praed, Macaulay, Henry Nelson Coleridge, and others in the Etonian and Knight's Quarterly Magazine, was the REV. JOHN MOULTRIE (1799-1874), for some time rector of Rugby

an amiable and accomplished man, and one of the most graceful and meditative of the minor poets. He published two volumes-My Brother's Grave, and other Poems, 1837; and The Dream of Life, and other Poems, 1843; also a volume of Sermons preached in the Parish Church of Rugby, 1852. A complete edition of Moultrie's poems was published in 1876, with memoir by the Rev. Derwent Coleridge, one of the most attached and admiring of his college friends. The following is part of one of his earliest and best poems:

My Brother's Grave.

Beneath the chancel's hallowed stone,
Exposed to every rustic tread,
To few save rustic mourners known,
My brother, is thy lowly bed.
Few words upon the rough stone graven,
Thy name, thy birth, thy youth declare;
Thy innocence, thy hopes of heaven,

In simplest phrase recorded there:
No 'scutcheons shine, no banners wave,
In mockery o'er my brother's grave.
The place is silent-rarely sound
Is heard those ancient walls around;
Nor mirthful voice of friends that meet,
Discoursing in the public street;
Nor hum of business dull and loud,
Nor murmur of the passing crowd,
Nor soldier's drum, nor trumpet's swell
From neighbouring fort or citadel—
No sound of human toil or strife
To death's lone dwelling speaks of life;
Nor breaks the silence still and deep,
Where thou, beneath thy burial stone,
Art laid in that unstartled sleep

The living eye hath never known.'
The lonely sexton's footstep falls
In dismal echoes on the walls,
As, slowly pacing through the aisle,
He sweeps the unholy dust away,
And cobwebs, which must not defile

Those windows on the Sabbath day;
And, passing through the central nave,
Treads lightly on my brother's grave.
But when the sweet-toned Sabbath chime,
Pouring its music on the breeze,
Proclaims the well-known holy time
Of prayer, and thanks, and bended knees;
When rustic crowds devoutly meet,

And lips and hearts to God are given,
And souls enjoy oblivion sweet

Of earthly ills, in thought of heaven;
What voice of calm and solemn tone
Is heard above thy burial stone?
What form, in priestly meek array
Beside the altar kneels to pray?
What holy hands are lifted up
To bless the sacramental cup?
Full well I know that reverend form,

And if a voice could reach the dead,
Those tones would reach thee, though the worm,
My brother, makes thy heart his bed;
That sire, who thy existence gave,
Now stands beside thy lowly grave.

It is not long since thou wert wont
Within these sacred walls to kneel;
This altar, that baptismal font,

These stones which now thy dust conceal,
The sweet tones of the Sabbath bell,

Were holiest objects to thy soul; On these thy spirit loved to dwell, Untainted by the world's control.

My brother, these were happy days,
When thou and I were children yet;
How fondly memory still surveys
Those scenes the heart can ne'er forget!

My soul was then, as thine is now,
Unstained by sin, unstung by pain;
Peace smiled on each unclouded brow-
Mine ne'er will be so calm again.
How blithely then we hailed the ray
Which ushered in the Sabbath day!
How lightly then our footsteps trod
Yon pathway to the house of God!
For souls, in which no dark offence
Hath sullied childhood's innocence,
Best meet the pure and hallowed shrine,
Which guiltier bosoms own divine.

And years have passed, and thou art now Forgotten in thy silent tomb;

And cheerful is my mother's brow,

My father's eye has lost its gloom; And years have passed, and death has laid Another victim by thy side; With thee he roams, an infant shade;

But not more pure than thou he died.
Blest are ye both! your ashes rest
Beside the spot ye loved the best ;

And that dear home, which saw your birth,
O'erlooks you in your bed of earth.
But who can tell what blissful shore
Your angel spirit wanders o'er ?
And who can tell what raptures high
Now bless your immortality?

THE HON. MRS NORTON.

The family of Sheridan has been prolific of genius, and MRS NORTON has well sustained the honours of her race. Richard Brinsley Sheridan, by his marriage with Miss Linley, had one son, Thomas, whose convivial wit and fancy were scarcely less bright or less esteemed than those of his father, and whose many amiable qualities greatly endeared him to his friends. He died at a comparatively early age (in 1817), while filling the office of Colonial Paymaster at the Cape of Good Hope. In 1806, Thomas Sheridan was in Scotland, in the capacity of aide-de-camp to Lord Moira, and he there married a daughter of Colonel and Lady Elizabeth Callender of Craigforth, by whom he had a numerous family.* Caroline Elizabeth Sarah was one of three sisters; she was born in 1808, and in her nineteenth year was married to the Hon. George Chapple Norton, son of the first Lord Grantley. This union was dissolved in 1840, after Mrs Norton had been the object of suspicion and persecution of the most painful description. Mr Norton was for thirty years recorder of Guildford; he died in 1875. From her childhood, Caroline Sheridan wrote verses. Her first publication was an attempt at satire, The Dandies' Rout, to which she added illustrative drawings. In her seventeenth year she wrote The Sorrows of Rosalie, a poem embodying a pathetic story of village-life, but which was not published until 1829. Her next work was a poem founded on the ancient legend of the Wandering

*Lady Elizabeth, the mother of Mrs Norton, was a daughter of the Earl of Antrim. She wrote a novel, entitled Carwell. Those who trace the preponderance of talent to the mother's side, may conclude that a fresh infusion of Irish genius was added to the Sheridan family by this connection.

Jew, and which she termed The Undying One, 1831. A novel, The Wife and Woman's Reward, 1835, was Mrs Norton's next production. In 1840 appeared The Dream, and other Poems. In 1845, she published The Child of the Islands, a poem written to draw the attention of the Prince of Wales, when he should be able to attend to social questions, to the condition of the people in a land and time wherein there is too little communication between classes,' and too little expression of sympathy on the part of the rich towards the poor. This was no new theme of the poetess: she had years before written letters on the subject, which were published in the Times newspaper. At Christmas 1846, Mrs Norton issued two poetical fairy tales, Aunt Carry's Ballads for Children, which charm alike by their graceful fancy and their brief sketches of birds, woods, and flowers. In 1850 appeared a volume of Tales and Sketches in Prose and Verse, being a collection of miscellaneous pieces originally contributed to periodicals. Next year a bolder venture was tried, a three-volume novel, entitled Stuart of Dunleath, a Story of Modern Times. The incidents of this story are too uniformly sad and gloomy-partly tinged by the bitter experiences of the authoress; but it presents occasional passages of humour and sarcasm, and a more matured though unfavourable knowledge of the world. It seemed as if the mind of the accomplished writer had been directed more closely to 'the evils done under the sun,' and that she longed passionately for power to redress them. In 1854 she wrote English Laws for Women in the Nineteenth Century; in 1862, The Lady of Garaye; in 1863, a novel entitled Lost and Saved. Her subsequent public appearances have been chiefly on topics of social importance; and the recent improvement in the English marriage laws may be traced primarily to the eloquent pleadings and untiring exertions of Mrs Norton. This lady,' says a writer in the Quarterly Review, 'is the Byron of our modern poetesses. She has very much of that intense personal passion by which Byron's poetry is distinguished from the larger grasp and deeper communion with man and nature of Wordsworth. She has also Byron's beautiful intervals of tenderness, his strong practical thought, and his forceful expression. It is not an artificial imitation, but a natural parallel.' The truth of this remark, both as to poetical and personal similarity of feeling, will be seen from the following impassioned verses, addressed by Mrs Norton to the late Duchess of Sutherland, to whom she dedicated her Poems. The simile of the swan flinging aside the turbid drops' from her snowy wing is certainly worthy of Byron. But happily Mrs Norton has none of Byron's misanthropy or cold hopelessness.

To the Duchess of Sutherland.

Once more, my harp! once more, although I thought
Never to wake thy silent strings again,

A wandering dream thy gentle chords have wrought,
And my sad heart, which long hath dwelt in pain,
Soars, like a wild bird from a cypress bough,
Into the poet's heaven, and leaves dull grief below!

And unto thee-the beautiful and pure-
Whose lot is cast amid that busy world
Where only sluggish Dullness dwells secure,
And Fancy's generous wing is faintly furled;

To thee-whose friendship kept its equal truth Through the most dreary hour of my embittered youth

I dedicate the lay. Ah! never bard,

In days when poverty was twin with song; Nor wandering harper, lonely and ill-starred,

Cheered by some castle's chief, and harboured long; Not Scott's Last Minstrel, in his trembling lays, Woke with a warmer heart the earnest meed of praise!

For easy are the alms the rich man spares

To sons of Genius, by misfortune bent;
But thou gav'st me, what woman seldom dares,
Belief in spite of many a cold dissent—
When, slandered and maligned, I stood apart
From those whose bounded power hath wrung, not
crushed, my heart.

Thou, then, when cowards lied away my name,
And scoffed to see me feebly stem the tide;
When some were kind on whom I had no claim,
And some forsook on whom my love relied,
And some, who might have battled for my sake,
Stood off in doubt to see what turn the world would
take-

Thou gav'st me that the poor do give the poor,
Kind words and holy wishes, and true tears;
The loved, the near of kin could do no more,
Who changed not with the gloom of varying years,
But clung the closer when I stood forlorn,
And blunted Slander's dart with their indignant scorn.
For they who credit crime, are they who feel
Their own hearts weak to unresisted sin;
Memory, not judgment, prompts the thoughts which

steal

O'er minds like these, an easy faith to win ; And tales of broken truth are still believed Most readily by those who have themselves deceived. But like a white swan down a troubled stream, Whose ruffling pinion hath the power to fling Aside the turbid drops which darkly gleam,

And mar the freshness of her snowy wingSo thou, with queenly grace and gentle pride, Along the world's dark waves in purity dost glide: Thy pale and pearly cheek was never made

To crimson with a faint false-hearted shame ;
Thou didst not shrink-of bitter tongues afraid,
Who hunt in packs the object of their blame;
To thee the sad denial still held true,
For from thine own good thoughts thy heart its mercy
drew.

And though my faint and tributary rhymes
Add nothing to the glory of thy day,
Yet every poet hopes that after-times

Shall set some value on his votive lay;
And I would fain one gentle deed record,
Among the many such with which thy life is stored.

So when these lines, made in a mournful hour,
Are idly opened to the stranger's eye,
A dream of thee, aroused by Fancy's power,
Shall be the first to wander floating by ;
And they who never saw thy lovely face
Shall pause, to conjure up a vision of its grace!

In a poem entitled Autumn there is a noble simile:

I know the gray stones in the rocky glen,
Where the wild red deer gather one by one,
And listen, startled, to the tread of men
Which the betraying breeze hath backward blown!

So-with such dark majestic eyes, where shone Less terror than amazement-nobly came

Peruvia's Incas, when, through lands unknown, The cruel conqueror with the blood-stained name Swept with pursuing sword and desolating flame.

In The Winter's Walk, a poem written after walking with Mr Rogers the poet, Mrs Norton has the following graceful and picturesque lines:

Gleamed the red sun athwart the misty haze
Which veiled the cold earth from its loving gaze,
Feeble and sad as hope in sorrow's hour-
But for thy soul it still had warmth and power;
Not to its cheerless beauty wert thou blind;
To the keen eye of thy poetic mind

Beauty still lives, though nature's flowerets die,
And wintry sunsets fade along the sky!
And nought escaped thee as we strolled along,
Nor changeful ray, nor bird's faint chirping song.
Blessed with a fancy easily inspired,

All was beheld, and nothing unadmired;
From the dim city to the clouded plain,
Not one of all God's blessings given in vain.

The affectionate attachment of Rogers to Sheridan, in his last and evil days, is delicately touched upon by the poetess :

And when at length he laid his dying head
On the hard rest of his neglected bed,

He found (though few or none around him came
Whom he had toiled for in his hour of fame--
Though by his Prince unroyally forgot,
And left to struggle with his altered lot),
By sorrow weakened, by disease unnerved-
Faithful at least the friend he had not served:
For the same voice essayed that hour to cheer,
Which now sounds welcome to his grandchild's ear;
And the same hand, to aid that life's decline,
Whose gentle clasp so late was linked in mine.

Picture of Twilight.

O Twilight! Spirit that dost render birth

To dim enchantments; melting heaven with earth,
Leaving on craggy hills and running streams
A softness like the atmosphere of dreams;
Thy hour to all is welcome! Faint and sweet
Thy light falls round the peasant's homeward feet,
Who, slow returning from his task of toil,
Sees the low sunset gild the cultured soil,

Not Lost, but Gone Before.

How mournful seems, in broken dreams,
The memory of the day,

When icy Death hath sealed the breath
Of some dear form of clay;

When pale, unmoved, the face we loved,
The face we thought so fair,

And the hand lies cold, whose fervent hold
Once charmed away despair.

Oh, what could heal the grief we feel
For hopes that come no more,
Had we ne'er heard the Scripture word,
'Not lost, but gone before.'

Oh, sadly yet with vain regret

The widowed heart must yearn; And mothers weep their babes asleep In the sunlight's vain return;

The brother's heart shall rue to part

From the one through childhood known;
And the orphan's tears lament for years
A friend and father gone.

For death and life, with ceaseless strife,
Beat wild on this world's shore,
And all our calm is in that balm,
'Not lost, but gone before.'

O world wherein nor death, nor sin,
Nor weary warfare dwells;
Their blessed home we parted from
With sobs and sad farewells;

Where eyes awake, for whose dear sake
Our own with tears grow dim,
And faint accords of dying words

Are changed for heaven's sweet hymn;

Oh! there at last, life's trials past,

We'll meet our loved once more, Whose feet have trod the path to God'Not lost, but gone before.'

THOMAS KIBBLE HERVEY-ALARIC A. WATTS.

MR HERVEY, a native of Manchester (18041859), for some years conducted the Athenæum

Marks the small spark his cottage-window throws.
Still as his heart forestalls his weary pace,
Fondly he dreams of each familiar face,
Recalls the treasures of his narrow life-
His rosy children and his sunburnt wife,
To whom his coming is the chief event
Of simple days in cheerful labour spent.
The rich man's chariot hath gone whirling past,
And these poor cottagers have only cast
One careless glance on all that show of pride,
Then to their tasks turned quietly aside;
But him they wait for, him they welcome home;
Fixed sentinels look forth to see him come;
The fagot sent for when the fire grew dim,
The frugal meal prepared, are all for him;
For him the watching of that sturdy boy,
For him those smiles of tenderness and joy,
For him-who plods his sauntering way along,
Whistling the fragment of some village song!

Dear art thou to the lover, thou sweet light,
Fair fleeting sister of the mournful Night!
As in impatient hope he stands apart,
Companioned only by his beating heart,
And with an eager fancy oft beholds
The vision of a white robe's fluttering folds.

periodicals. He published Australia, and other Poems, 1824; The Poetical Sketch-book, 1829; Illustrations of Modern Sculpture, 1832; The English Helicon, 1841 ; &c. His verses are characterised by delicate fancy and feeling.

The Convict Ship.

Morn on the waters! and, purple and bright,
Bursts on the billows the flushing of light;
O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun,
See the tall vessel goes gallantly on ;
Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail,

And her pennon streams onward, like hope, in the gale;

The winds come around her, in murmur and song,
And the surges rejoice as they bear her along :
See! she looks up to the golden-edged clouds,
And the sailor sings gaily aloft in the shrouds :
Onward she glides, amid ripple and spray,
Over the waters-away, and away!
Bright as the visions of youth, ere they part,
Passing away, like a dream of the heart!
Who-as the beautiful pageant sweeps by,
Music around her, and sunshine on high-