LINES,

ON HEARING SOME PASSAGES READ FROM MRS. HEMANS'S "RECORDS OF WOMAN,"

Он, pause not yet, for many an hour

I'd lend a raptured ear,

The thrilling, melting

1836.

melting sweetness

Of that seraph strain to hear.

Dispel not yet the soften'd joy
Those gentle tones impart,
While painting in such vivid hues,
The worth of woman's heart.

Priestess of song! could we but feel
The value of thine own,
How many a soul would bow before
Thy spirit's lofty throne.

How many now elated

With the muse's faintest smile,
Would turn them to thy radiant shrine,
And worship there awhile.

With softest touch thy magic hand
Awaked the sleeping lyre,
To all a woman's tenderness,
And all a poet's fire.

And proudly soar'd thy lofty mind
Each earthly thought above,
And vainly sought thy woman's heart
For something more to love.

[Unfinished.]

AN APPEAL FOR THE BLIND.

THOUGH thousands pass the mourners by,
And scorn the suppliant's bended knee,
"Hope springs exulting" to the eye,
When sorrow turns its glance on thee.

For soft compassion's slumbering ray,
And pity's melting glance is there,
To chase the sufferer's fears away,
And soothe to calmness wild despair.

Oh fan to life the kindling spark,
Till brightly burns its radiant flame,
For thou art fortune's favour'd child,
And I would plead in mercy's name.

Scan the dark page of life, and say
If there thy searching eye can find
A woe more keen, a fate more sad,
Than that which marks the helpless blind.

Launch'd forth on life's uncertain path,
Its best and brightest gift denied,
No power to pluck its fragrant flowers,
Or turn its poisonous thorns aside;

No ray to pierce the gloom within,
And chase the darkness with its light;
No radiant morning dawn to win
His spirit from the shades of night.

Nature, whose smile, so pure and fair,
Casts a bright glow o'er life's dark stream,
Nature, sweet soother of our care,
Has not a single smile for him.

When pale disease, with blighting hand,
Crushes each budding hope awhile,
Our eyes can rest in sweet delight
On love's fond gaze, or friendship's smile.

Not so with him-his soul, chain'd down
By doubt, and loneliness, and care,
Feels but misfortune's chilling frown,
And broods in darkness and despair.

Favour'd by heaven! oh haste thee on,-
Thy blest Redeemer points the way,-
Haste o'er the spirit's gloom to pour
The light of intellectual day.

Thou canst not raise their drooping lids,
And wake them to the noonday sun;
Thou canst not ope what God hath closed,
Or cancel aught His hands have done.

But oh! there is a world within,

More bright, more beautiful than ours;
A world which, nursed by culturing hands,
Will blush with fairest, sweetest flowers.

And thou canst make that desert mind
Bloom sweetly as the blushing rose;

1836.

Thou canst illume that rayless void,
Till darkness like the day-beam glows.

Thou canst implant the brilliant gem
Of thought, in each benighted soul,
Till back from radiance so divine
The clouds of ignorance shall roll.

Thus shalt thou shed a purer ray
O'er each beclouded mind within,
Than pours the glorious orb of day
On this dark world of care and sin.

Prize you a self-approving mind?
Then lay thine offering here;
The clouded orbits of the blind
Shall yield a grateful tear.

Would'st thou the blessings of that band
Should crowd thy path below?
That hearts, enlighten'd by thy hand,
With gratitude should flow?

And would'st thou seek the matchless love

To God's own children given,
A conscience calmly resting 'neath
The fav'ring smiles of Heaven?

Then speed thee on in mercy's cause,
And teach the blind to see;
"Hope springs exulting" in the eye
That sorrowing turns to thee.

And warmest blessings on thy head,
Full many a voice shall call;
And tears upon thy memory shed,
Like Hermon's dew shall fall!

And when the last dread day has come,
Which seals thy endless doom;
When the freed soul shall seek its home,
And triumph o'er the tomb;

When lowly bends each reverend knee,
And bows each heart in prayer,
A band of spirits, saved by thee,
Shall plead thy virtues there!

THE SMILES OF NATURE.

THERE's a smile above, and a smile below, In the clouds that roll, and the waves that flow: Is the heart unchain'd by sorrow's thrall, There's a smile of joy and of peace in all! There 's a smile on the brow of the waken'd day, When he gilds the east with his glowing ray, And a smile on his brow when he sinks to rest, Like the saint who expires on his Maker's breast. There are pensive smiles on the evening sky, Which raise the thoughts to the pure and high, Which speak to the soul of its glad release, And tune its quivering chords to peace. The flow'rets ope with the rising sun, And wither and die ere his race is run; Yet a smile is shed o'er their transient bloom, Adorning the path to their early tomb. There's a smile on the brow of the gorgeous spring, When she spreads o'er the valley her radiant wing; As she calms the wild winds with her fragrant breath, And decks the glad earth in her beautiful wreath. There's a smile on the rose, though 't will cease to bloom; There's a smile on the stream, though the storm may come; There's a smile in the sky, though the clouds may roll Like sin o'er the depths of the human soul! Thus, all that is lovely is form'd for decay, But the pure beams of heaven are shed o'er the way. There are varied smiles on a mortal's brow, Which speak of the soul from its depths below; But they too vanish, when brightest they beam, And bury their light in the world's dark stream. For the heart of man is the throne of guile, And sin can shadow each mortal smile; And the blossoms of light which are planted there, Are weaken'd by passion, or wither'd by care. There's a haughty smile on the conqueror's brow, As the nations of earth at his footstool bow; But that smile is chill as the frozen stream Which glitters pale in the moon's cold beam; It speaks of ambition, of pride, and of sin, Which rankle and swell the dark bosom within. There's a smile on the brow of aspiring man, As he pauses the works of his hand to scan, And gazes far up to that gorgeous height Which is guarded by danger, and terror, and night; But 't is cold as the bosom from whence it came, And is lost in the splendours of grandeur and fame, There's a beaming smile upon beauty's brow, As the young and the gay at her altar bow; 'Tis brilliant, 't is dazzling, 't is passing fair, But the heart in its freshness is wanting there.

There's a sunny smile on the infant's lip, As he pauses the cup of enjoyment to sip; But a moment more shall have hurried by, And that smile will fade from his clouded eye; Some childish sorrow, or childish sin, Shall cast its shade o'er the depths within. Then where shall we seek for a perfect smile, If beauty hath sorrow, and youth hath guile? If the clouds of pride and ambition roll O'er the inmost depths of the deathless soul? Oh Nature! the soul is a spark divine, But I turn from its light for a smile of thine; The soul in its greatness must ever endure, But thou, in thy freshness, art holy and pure! Oh, give me the beams of the summer sky, Which gladden the bosom and rapture the eye; Though transient the radiance, though fleeting the smile, They speak not of sorrow, they breathe not of guile! But light up the tremulous chords of the soul, Its virtues to heighten, its sins to control: For the soft smiles of nature around us are cast, To light, with their brilliance, the world's weary waste. To call the lone heart from its sadness away, And shed o'er its darkness a magical ray! When oppress'd with the cares and sorrows of life, The spirit turns back from its turmoil and strife, When it longs to be happy, and sighs to be free, Oh nature, 'tis cheer'd by communion with thee. Though the waters may rise, and the sky be o'ercast; Though rages the tempest, and whistles the blast ; Though thy brow may be shaded in darkness and fear, He can read there a lesson to solace and cheer, As the soft rays of sunshine succeed to thy frown; As the rainbow encircles thy brows like a crown; As the tempest rolls off which had reigned there awhile, And bursts forth in radiance the light of thy smile, So gently the shadows of sorrow depart, And hope dawns again on the desolate heart, And points from thy glories to glories more pure From thy fast-fading beauties to charms which endure, And leads the rapt soul from its sinful abode, To commune for awhile with its Maker and God. Oh Nature! what art thou?-a mighty lyre, Whose wings are swept by an angel choir; Whose music, attuned by a hand divine, Thrills a chord in each bosom responsive to thine, And whose gentle strain, as it softly swells, Soothes many a bosom where sadness dwells; While the joyous and happy, the youthful and gay, Pluck the flowers from thy garland and speed on their way. Oh, give me the beams of the summer sky, Which gladden the bosom, and rapture the eye,