Departed-and the earth is dark below.
From land to land I'll roam, in all a stranger,
And as the body gains a braver look

By staring in the face of many winds,
So from the sad aspects of different things
My soul shall pluck a courage and bear up
Against the past.

How proudly will we pass our lives together;
And wander heart-linked through the busy world,
Like birds in Eastern story.

Give me an intellectual, nobler life;

Not fighting like the herded elephants, which,
Beckoned by some fierce slave, go forth to war,
And trample in the dust their fellow-brute.
But let me live amongst high thoughts and smiles
As beautiful as love; with grasping hands,
And a heart that flutters with diviner life,
Where'er my step is heard.

My own sweet love! oh! my dear, peerless wife!
By the blue sky and all its crowding stars,
I love you better-oh! far better than
Woman was ever loved. There's not an hour
Of day or dreaming night but I am with thee:
There's not a wind but whispers of thy name,
And not a flower that sleeps beneath the moon
But in its hues or fragrance tells a tale
Of thee, my love, to thy Mirandola.

No voice of parent spoke

Ungentle words, which now too often mar
Life's first fair passion: then no gods of gold

Usurping swayed with bitter tyranny

That sad domain, the heart.

Love's rule was free,

(Ranging through boundless air, and happy heaven

And earth,) when Pyrrha wed the Titan's son.

there she pined,

Pale as a prophetess whose labouring mind

Gives out its knowledge; but her upraised eyes
Shone with the languid light of one who loves or dies.

Then Love came-Love! How like a star it streamed
In infancy upon me, till I dreamed,

And 't was as pure and almost cold a light,
And led me to the sense of such delight
As children know not; so at last I grew
Enamour'd of beauty and soft pain,

And felt mysterious pleasure wander through
My heart, and animate my childish brain.

He loved: Oh how he loved! his heart was full
Of that immortal passion, which alone
Holds through the wide world its eternal rule
Supreme, and with its deep, seducing tone,
Winneth the wise, the young, the beautiful,

The brave, and all to bow before its throne;
The sun and soul of life, the end, the gain,
The rich requital of an age of pain.

O, melancholy Love! amid thy fears,

Thy darkness, thy despair, there runs a vein
Of pleasure, like a smile 'midst many tears-
The pride of sorrow that will not complain—
The exultation that in after years

The loved one will discover—and in vain,
How much the heart silently in its cell
Did suffer till it broke, yet nothing tell.

Else-wherefore else doth lovely woman keep
Lock'd in her heart of hearts, from every gaze
Hidden, her struggling passion-wherefore weep
In grief that never while it flows allays
Those tumults in the bosom buried deep,

And robs her bright eyes of their natural rays.
Creation's sweetest riddle! yet remain
Just as thou art-man's only worthy gain.

Oh power of love, so fearful and so fair-
Life of our life on earth, yet kin to care-
Oh! thou day-dreaming spirit, who dost look
Upon the future as the charmed book
Of Fate, were opened to thine eyes alone-

Thou who dost cull from moments stolen and gone
Into eternity, memorial things,

To deck the days to come-thy revellings
Were glorious and beyond all others. Thou
Didst banquet upon beauty once; and now
The ambrosial feast is ended! Let it be
Enough to say, "it was." Oh! upon me
From thy o'ershadowing wings ethereal
Shake odorous airs, so may my senses all
Be spell-bound to thy service, beautiful power,
And on the breath of every coming hour
Send me faint tidings of the things that were.

Quick are fond women's sights and clear their powers,
They live in moments years, an age in hours;
Through every movement of the heart they run
In a brief period with a courser's speed,
And mark, decide, reject; but if indeed
They smile on us-oh! as the eternal sun
Forms and illuminates all to which this earth,
Impregnate by his glance, has given birth,
Even so the smile of woman stamps our fates,
And consecrates the love it first creates !

MRS. HEMANS.

We have heard much of late regarding the rights and sphere of woman. The topic has become trite. One branch of the discussion, however, is worthy of careful notice the true theory of cultivated and liberal men on the subject. This has been greatly misunderstood. The idea has been often suggested that man is jealous of his alleged intellectual superiority, while little has been advanced in illustration of his genuine reverence for female character. Because the other sex cannot always find erudition so attractive as grace in woman, and strong mental traits so captivating as a beautiful disposition, it is absurdly argued that mind and learning are only honoured in masculine attire. The truth is, men of feeling instinctively recognize something higher than intellect. They feel that a noble and true soul is greater and more delightful than mere reason, however powerful; and they know that to this, extensive knowledge and active logical powers are not essential. It is not the attainments, or the literary talent, that they would have women abjure. They only pray that through and above these may appear the woman. They desire that the harmony of Nature may not be disturbed; that the essential foundations of love may not be invaded; that the sensibility, delicacy and quiet enthusiasm of the female heart may continue to awaken in man the tender reverence, which is one of the most elevating of his sentiments.

Portia is highly intellectual; but even while arrayed in male costume and enacting the public advocate, the essential and captivating characteristics of her true sex inspire her mien and language. Vittoria Colonna was one of the most gifted spirits of her age the favourite companion of Michael Angelo, but her life and works were but the eloquent development of exalted womanhood. Madame Roland displayed a strength of character singularly heroic, but her brave dignity was perfectly feminine. Isabella of Spain gave evidence of a mind remarkably comprehensive, and a rare degree of judgment; yet in perusing her history, we are never beguiled from the feeling of her queenly character. There is an essential quality of sex, to be felt rather than described, and it is when this is marred, that a feeling of disappointment is the consequence. It is as if we should find violets growing on a tall tree. The triumphs of mind always command respect, but their style and trophies have diverse complexions in the two sexes. It is only when these distinctions are lost, that they fail to interest. It matters not how erudite or mentally gifted a woman may be, so that she remains in manner and feeling a woman. Such is the idea that man loves to see realized; and in cherishing it, he gives the highest proof of his estimation of woman. He delights to witness the exercise of her noblest prerogative. He is charmed to behold her in the most effective attitude. He appreciates too truly the beauty and power of her nature to wish to see it arrayed in any but a becoming dress. There is such a thing as female science, philosophy and poetry, as there is female physiognomy and taste; not that their absolute qualities differ in the two sexes, but their relative aspect is distinct. Their sphere is as large and high, and infinitely more delicate and deep than that of man, though not so obvious. When they overstep their appropriate domain,