134 CRITICAL NOTICES OP NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



" THE TOKEN-FLOWERS. 



" I have been jrazing on those eloquent flowers — 



The love-named * Eteart's-ease' and ' Forget-me-not' 



"Which thou did'st ffive me in those last sweet hours 



That beam'd quick life before our death of parting. 



They are both withered ! —That the first should die, 



To my repining heart is nothing strange ; 



For never heart's-ease fell to passion's lot 



In this woe-weary world, where chance and change 



Still drug Joy's purest cup with misery. 



But my soul sighs, and to my eye is starting 



A thoughtful tear, to think the last must perish : 



! I would have it live until the hour 



When thy remembrance. Dear ! I cease to cherish — 

 What an undying thing were then that sacred flower !" 



« THE ANSWER. 



" Here, in my lone abode again I sit. 



With a tired heart, for ever toward thee yearning ; 



And visions of thee, in all aspects, flit 



Before my sleepy eyes, that cannot sleep, 



Kept open by my troubled mind's discerning. 



Through the long night sad vigils did I keep ; 



And spectres of thee, and imaginings. 



Were in me and around me. I did weep, 



To think on all thy love ; and all the grief 



Which must disturb thy spirit in its springs. 



After our hurried parting, when relief 



Of tears or sighs was by our state forbidden ; 



And our one heart was as a folded leaf 



In which oracular characters are hidden. 



" But, then ; the thought — the deep, prophetic thought, 



That in this being we should meet again, 



Did still the turbulent sorrow of my soul ; 



And my sweet hopes kiss'd thine — but had no fear ; 



For a triumphant flag did passion rear, 



That stream'd into the future, glory-fraught ! 



1 cannot cease to love thee : though the chain 

 Of this world is around me, its controul 



Is feeble ; for the powers of love and song 

 Wave a magician's wand above my spirit. 

 And sway me with a talisman divine 

 Which I resist not : others may inherit 

 My heart's wild perfume ; but the flower is thine. 

 This read where thou didst write. All blessings round thee throng !" 



We appeal to all who think and feel — Are not these true pictures 

 of the human heart ? They are, true, profound, lasting. And yet 

 there are those, of literary pretensions too, who cannot discriminate 

 between this and ordinary versification ; what may be the texture 

 of their heart and brain we cannot divine. God pity and forgive 

 them ! Poor Fakenham Ghosts ! 



The condensed power of Mr. Wade's genius is felicitously enun- 

 ciated in the Sonnet. Familiar as we are with the masters of this 

 composition — Petrarch, and Shakspeare, and Wordsworth — we do 



