Not for the brightness of a mortal wreath,
Not for a place 'mid kingly minstrels dead,
But that, perchance, a faint gale of thy breath,
A still small whisper in my song hath led
One struggling spirit upwards to thy throne,
Or but one hope, one prayer:- - for this alone
I bless thee, O my God!

From "A Poet's Dying Hymn," by Mrs. HEMANS

18454.18

?

ΤΟ

COLONEL SIR HENRY BROWNE, K. C. H.

THESE PAGES,

WRITTEN UNDER HIS ROOF

WHICH HAS ALWAYS BEEN A REFUGE FOR THE SORROWFUL

ARE DEDICATED,

BY HIS SURVIVING SISTER,

IN REMEMBRANCE OF HER,

WHO, DURING MANY YEARS OF TRIAL

FOUND HER BEST EARTHLY SOLACE

IN HIS CARE AND AFFECTION.

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MEMOIR

OF

MRS. HE MANS.

PERHAPS there never was an individual who would have shrunk more sensitively from the idea of being made the subject of a biographical memoir, than she of whom, by a strange fatality, so many imperfect notices have been given to the world. The external events of her life were few and unimportant; and that inward grief which pervaded and darkened her whole existence, was one with which "a stranger intermeddleth not." The gradual developement of her mind may be traced in the writings by which she alone wished to be generally known. In every thing approaching to intrusion on the privacies of domestic life, her favourite motto was, "Implora pace;" and those to whom her wishes were most sacred-in whose ears still echo the plaintive tones of her death-bed injunction, "Oh! never let them publish any of my letters!"-would fain, as far as regards all personal details, have "kept silence, even from good words;" and in this spirit of reverential forbearance, would have believed they were best fulfilling her own affecting exhortation,

"Leave ye the Sleeper with her God to rest."1

See "The Farewell to the Dead."

3*

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