THE MOSS ROSE. Mossy rose on mossy stone, Thus may still, while fades the past, Tear the garb, the spirit flies, Ever thus together live, Moss and rose, and age and youth, I fearless reap thy fruit And I who am thy root, Am to the air to kiss Thy father's form and pride In thee yet undescried, Shall soon be fully wrought, Nay, do not stir, my child, In thee is reconciled To man heaven's righteous will. To us our sin has borne From light dethroned and torn, "T was ours to dwell in gloom; But thou, a better morn, By that dark night art borne. Thou shalt, my child, be free Nor taste the fatal tree, For thou from us shalt win My all things fair that are, My spring of endless joy, From thee is heaven not far, From thee, its earthly star. So, darling, shalt thou grow MRS. MACLEAN. LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON was born in London, on the fourteenth day of August, 1802. Her father, who was of a respectable Herefordshire family, died when she was very young, and his widow and children were left in a great degree dependent upon the exertions of LETITIA, whose habit of writing had commenced in childhood, and who now exhibited indications of that genius which soon made her initial signature of L. E. L. everywhere familiar. Her first appearance as a poet was in the pages of the Literary Gazette, to which she was long a frequent contributor; and her first volume was The Fate of Adelaide, a Swiss romantic tale, published in her eighteenth year. In the spring of 1824 it was followed by the Improvisatrice and other Poems, and about the same time began her permanent connection with periodical literature and criticism. The constant and exhausting drain of the press she bore with cheerfulness, and her duties were fulfilled carefully and earnestly. For fourteen years she was one of the most industrious and successful authors of England. In this period, besides her reviews, essays, and other contributions to literary journals, she wrote three novels, Romance and Reality, Francesca Carrara, and Ethel Churchill; and The Troubadour, the Venetian Bracelet, the Golden Violet, the Vow of the Peacock, and several volumes of shorter poems. Mr. BLANCHARD, her biographer, remarks of her opinions of books and authors, that there may be seen in them the results of much miscellaneous reading, research in several foreign languages, and acuteness and brilliancy of remark, with hastiness of judgment and prejudiced and inconclusive views, but no ungenerous or vindictive sentiment or trace of an unkindly or interested feeling. She often went far out of her way, indeed, to recommend the productions of rivals who abused her; and towards those by whom she conceived herself obliged, though in the slightest degree, she was ever ready to act the friend where she should have been the critic only. Her failings as a reviewer leaned to virtue's side; and the young writer, with but a spark of the poetic fire in his lines, was as sure of a gentle sentence, of appreciation and sympathy, as the established favourite of a grateful welcome, and an honouring tribute. Many of her poems were in their nature ephemeral; but others, especially those of later years, were written with care, and are distinguished for true feeling and a delicate fancy. From the beginning she sung in songs of a sad tone of love; nearly all her works are pervaded by a gentle and touching melancholy; yet she is said to have been as gay as she was brilliant, delighting her friends by her apparent happiness as well as by her genial wit. But they who write most rapidly write oftenest from the heart, and the solitary musings of the study are more real than the manner or the opinions exhibited in society. Miss LANDON became, with what reason we cannot tell, the subject of harsh judgments by the world; her associates "began to wish her health and happiness in set terms;" and she gave expression to disappointment, impatience, and scorn, in writings of too genuine a stamp to be regarded as the issues of only imagination. Yet she had many intimate and unchanging friends, among whom were some of the most eminent of her contemporaries. In June, 1838, Miss LANDON was married to Captain GEORGE MACLEAN, Governor of Cape Coast Castle, and soon afterward left England for Africa. On arriving at her new home she wrote letters to her friends in London, which told of happiness and cheerful anticipations, but they were followed soon by intelligence of her death. A mystery hangs over her last days. There were rumours of suicide and of poisoning. According to the verdict of a coroner, her death was caused by prussic acid, taken in too large a quantity, to cure some slight disease. The career of Mrs. MACLEAN commenced brilliantly, but the promise of her earlier efforts was scarcely fulfilled in her subsequent productions, which were generally written under circumstances that prevented study and elaboration. She had a deep feeling of affec tion, a lively fancy, a fine eye for the picturesque, and an unusual command of poetical language; and notwithstanding the haste and carelessness with which she wrote, she was improving in taste and execution, and would probably have gained a far higher reputation had she lived a few more years. With all her faults she will be remembered as one of the sweetest poets of the age. Many of the poems of Mrs. MACLEAN have been often reprinted in this country; but the most complete American edition of her works is that of Carey and Hart, in three large octavo volumes. THE FACTORY. 'Tis an accursed thing. THERE rests a shade above yon town, The smoke that rises on the air A shadow flung by the despair Within those streets of thine. That smoke shuts out the cheerful day, The moonlight's pure and tranquil ray, Heavy with care, and pale with fear, There rises on the morning wind A thousand children are resign'd We read of Moloch's sacrifice, We sicken at the name, And seem to hear the infant cries And yet we do the same ; And worse-'twas but a moment's pain But we give years,—our idol, gain, How precious is the little one Before his mother's sight, He sleeps as rosy as the south, Lull'd by his nurse's song. Love is around him, and his hours His mind essays its early powers When after-years of trouble come, How will he think of that dear home, And such should childhood ever be, The freshness of its spring. Look on yon child, it droops the head, It mutters from its wretched bed, Alas! 'tis time, the mother's eyes Turn mournfully away; Alas! 'tis time, the child must rise, The lantern's lit-she hurries forth, The spare cloak's scanty fold Scarce screens her from the snowy north, The child is pale and cold. And wearily the little hands Their task accustom'd ply; While daily, some 'mid those pale bands Droop, sicken, pine, and die. Good God! to think upon a child That has no childish days, No words of prayer and praise! To labour ere their strength be come, Is there no pity from above,— No mercy in those skies; O England! though thy tribute waves THE MINSTREL'S MONITOR. SILENT and dark as the source of yon river, Whose birth-place we know not, and seek not to know, Though wild as the flight of the shaft from yon quiver, Is the course of its waves as in music they flow. The lily flings o'er it its silver white blossom, Like ivory barks which a fairy hath made; The rose o'er it bends with its beautiful bosom, As though 'twere enamour'd itself of its shade. The sunshine, like hope, in its noontide hour slumbers On the stream, as it loved the bright place of its rest; And its waves pass in song, as the sea-shell's soft numbers [best. Had given to those waters their sweetest and The banks that surround it are flower-dropt and sunny; There the first birth of violets' odour-showers weep There the bee heaps his earliest treasures of honey, Or sinks in the depths of the harebell to sleep. Like prisoners escaped during night from their prison, The waters fling gayly their spray to the sun; Who can tell me from whence that glad river has risen? [not one. Who can say whence it springs in its beauty?— O my heart, and my song, which is as my heart's flowing, [own! Read thy fate in yon river, for such is thine Mid those the chief praise on thy music bestowing, Who cares for the lips from whence issue the tone? Dark as its birth-place so dark is my spirit, Whence yet the sweet waters of melody came: "Tis the long after-course, not the source, will inherit The beauty and glory of sunshine and fame. THE FEAST OF LIFE. BID thee to my mystic feast, And bind the cypress in thy hair. But beauty from which bloom has fled; And music echoes from the walls, But music with a dirgelike sound; And pale and silent are the guests, And every eye is on the ground. Here, take this cup, though dark it seem, And drink to human hopes and fears; "Tis from their native element, The cup is fill'd-it is of tears. What, turn'st thou with averted brow? Light words, glad smiles, and sunny wine. In vain the veil has left thine eyes, Or such these would have seem'd to thee; Before thee is the Feast of Life, But life in its reality! EXPERIENCE. My very heart is fill'd with tears! I seem Our early friends, where are they? rather, where But with the softness is the sweetness o'er. Of things we once enjoy'd how few remain ! Ah! then, farewell, ye lovely things that brought SUCCESS ALONE SEEN. FEW know of life's beginnings-men behold When hope deferr'd was sickness to the heart. |