430 
_ Solitary Hours, by the Authoress of Ellen 
Fi tzarthur, and The Widow's Tale. 
The present volume will amply sustain 
the reputation which the writer acquired 
by her two previous performances. Indeed, 
consisting chiefly of shorter pieces, it may 
on that account be considered as more 
suitable to her, genius; for her lyric 
effusions, and particularly the more medi- 
tative ones, greatly excel her attempts at 
narrative. Moral musings, where they are 
called forth by something familiar, and 
more especially by something domestic, 
flow from her pen with all the ease of an 
impromptu ; and her poems of this cast 
evince by their originality, their vivid pic- 
turing, their expressive plaintiveness, and 
occasional energy, that a naturally poetic 
mind has unforcedlygiven vent in them to 
bosom feelings. Circumstances have evi- 
dently cast a melancholy shade over a 
spirit light by nature, and joyous and alive 
to fancy and humour; and yet this spi- 
rit has not been quite "depressed by great 
vicissitudes of fortune, or even by severe 
if 
inroads of personal sickness: for to those 
visitations the book bears witness that its 
writer has been exposed. 
Of her cheerful views of nature, take 
the following specimen : 
A fair place and pleasant, this same world of 
ours! 
Who says there are serpents ’mongst all the sweet 
flowers ? 
Who says, every blossom we pluck has its thorn? 
Pho! pho! laugh those musty old sayings to scorn. 
If you roam to the tropics for flowr’s rich and rare, 
No doubt there are serpents, and deadly ones, there— 
If none but the rose will content ye, ’tis true, 
You may get sundry scratches, and ugly ones too. 
But prithee look there—could a serpent find room, 
In that close-woven moss, where those violets bloom? 
And reach me that woodbine (you'll get it with ease) 
Now, wiseacre! where are the thorns, if you please? 
I say there are angels inevery spot, 
Though our dim earthly vision discerneth them not 5 
That they’ re guardians assigned to the least of us all, 
By Him who takesnote if a sparrow but fall; 
That they’ re aye flitting near us, around us, above, 
On missions of kindness, compassion, and love— 
That they’re glad when we're happy, disturbed at 
our tears, 
Distressed at our weaknesses, failings, and fears ; 
That they care for the least of our innocent joys, 
Though we're cozened like children with trifles and 
toys; | 
And can lead us to bloom-beds, and lovely ones too, 
Where snake never harbour’d, and thorn never grew 
Without losing sight of poetic ey 
she can ascend to religicus themes—a 
difficulty which few comparatively over- 
come. 
*« It isnot death—it is not death 
From which I shrink with coward fear ; 
Iti is, that I must leave behind 
ANT love here. 
It is not wealth—it i is not wealth 
That J am loth to.leave behind ; 
_ Small store to me (yet all I crave) 
Hath fate assigned. 
Monthly Review of Literature, 
great command of 1 
: 
[Ocr. 
Thy ' 
It fs not Fame it is not fa ame nt sat tps km 
From which it will be pain to | 2 dF spre 
Observe my lot,—but mine was still |” odd Me 
An humble heart! 28M TROY Ott 
It is not health—it is not health 
That makes me fain to linger here; 
For I havelanguish’d on in pain ~~ 
This many a year. iVOONS 
It {s not hope—it is not hope b 39W 
From which I cannot turn away ; SYST 
Oh, earthly hope has cheated me — i 
Thismany a day. ial 
But there are friends—but there are friends ' 
To whom I could not say, farewell ei 
Without a pang more hard to bear 
Than tongue can tell. 
But there’s a thought—but there’s a thought 
Will arm me with that pang to cope ; 
Thank God! we shall not part like those 
Who have no hope. 
And some are gone—and some are gone 
Methinks they chide my long delay,— 
With whom, it seemed my very life 
Went half away. 
But we shall meet—but we shall meet 
Where parting tears shall never flow; 
And, when I think thereon, almost * 
I long to go. 
The Saviour wept—the Saviour wept 
O’er him he loved—corrupting clay ! 
But then he spake the word, and death 
Gave up his prey! 
A little while—a little while : e 
And the dark grave shall yield its trust ;~ 
Yea, render every atom up 
Of human dust. 
What matters then—what matters then 
Who earliest lays him down. to rests 
Nay, ‘‘ to depart and be with Christ,” 
Is surely best. o 
If this reminds any one of Montgomery, 
it is that their instruments are’ pitched to 
the same note ; there is no imitation ofany 
individual production of his. It bears re- 
semblance to some pathetic breathings of 
the late Mrs. Tighe, but no farther than 
from the similarity of topics in the two. 
We can only find further space for these 
three stanzas, which will wake an echo in 
every heart which has felt affection and 
attachment. ~ 
I never cast a flower away, 
The gift of one who cared for me,— 
A little flower, a faded flower,— 
But it was done reluctantly. 
I never looked a Jast adieu 
To things familiar, but my heart 
Shrank witha feeling, almost pain, 
E’er from their lifelessness to part. 
I never spoke the word, ‘* farewell,” 
But with an utterance faint and’ brok 
An earth-sick longing for the time 
When it shall never more be spokems))) > 
There are a few prose com ositions in’ 
the book, which do not disered poetic” 
part ; they are lively and spirited, and Sng 
guage.) santa 
Hisiory of the Crusades against the Albi 
genses in the 13th Century, from the Frene 
of J.C. Ly Senoude de Sismondi, with an. 
the 
104 
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Sarai 1 
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