and unformed, vulgar and vicious minds, of individuals without any conception of poetry as the glowing expression of what is most noble in our nature, and often with no title to the name of poet, but from having put into metre thoughts too mean for prose. Such writings as those of Mrs Hemans at once afford evidence of the advance of our race, and are among the most important means of its further purification and progress. The minds, which go forth from their privacy to act with strong moral power upon thousands and ten thousands of other minds, are the real agents in advancing the character of man, and improving his condition. They are instruments of the invisible operations of the Spirit of God."-From the Christian Examiner of January, 1836.

FROM

JUVENILE POEMS.

[IN this collected edition of the various writings of Mrs Hemans, chronological arrangement has been adhered to, in so far as any useful purpose could be attained by it; and, when departed from, it has only been to a small extent, and that for the purpose of giving to each volume a greater degree of variety.

In a very general point of view, the intellectual career of Mrs Hemans may be divided, as we have already hinted, into two separate eras,—the first of which may be termed the classical, and comprehends the productions of her pen, from "the Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy and "Modern Greece," down to the "Historic Scenes" and the "Translations from Camoens," and the last the romantic, which commences with the "Forest Sanctuary," and includes "Records of Woman," together with nearly all her later efforts.

In point of poetical merit, there can be little doubt that the last section far transcends the first, and forms the groundwork-whether we regard conception or execution on which her peculiar fame will be tested by posterity. The former series of poems, however, must be always reckoned valuable, not only in themselves as compositions, but as showing the progress of an intrinsically poetical mind towards its maturity.

But as noonday has its morning, so even these were only the blossoms from antecedent buds; and, as matter of literary curiosity, we have appended a selection from Mrs Hemans's really juvenile efforts, sufficient to show the first expansions of that genius, which time and exertion afterwards ripened into "the bright consummate flower." Even afetr the early poetical attempts of Cowley and Pope, of Chatterton, Kirke White, and Byron, some of the following outpourings of poetical sentiment may be read with no common interest.]

JUVENILE POEMS,

BY

FELICIA DOROTHEA BROWNE.

From a Volume of Poems, by FELICIA DOROTHEA BROWNE, published in 1808, containing Pieces written between the ages of eight and thirteen.

ON MY MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF EIGHT.

CLAD in all their brightest green,
This day the verdant fields are seen;
The tuneful birds begin their lay,
To celebrate thy natal day.

The breeze is still, the sea is calm,

And the whole scene combines to charm;

The flowers revive, this charming May,

Because it is thy natal day.

The sky is blue, the day serene,
And only pleasure now is seen;
The rose, the pink, the tulip gay,
Combine to bless thy natal day,

A PRAYER.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF NINE.

OH! God, my Father and my Friend,
Ever thy blessings to me send;
Let me have Virtue for my guide,
And Wisdom always at my side;
Thus cheerfully through life I'll go,
Nor ever feel the sting of woe;
Contented with the humblest lot,
Happy, though in the meanest cot.

ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN.

THE infant muse, Jehovah! would aspire
To swell the adoration of the lyre:

Source of all good, oh! teach my voice to sing

Thee, from whom Nature's genuine beauties spring;

Thee, God of truth, omnipotent and wise,
Who saidst to Chaos, "let the earth arise."
Oh! author of the rich luxuriant year,

Love, Truth, and Mercy, in thy works appear:
Within their orbs the planets dost Thou keep,
And e'en hast limited the mighty deep.

Oh! could I number thy inspiring ways,
And wake the voice of animated praise!
Ah, no! the theme shall swell a cherub's note;
To Thee celestial hymns of rapture float.
'Tis not for me, in lowly strains to sing
Thee, God of mercy,-heaven's immortal King.
Yet to that happiness I'd fain aspire;
Oh! fill my heart with elevated fire:
With angel-songs an artless voice shall blend,
The grateful offering shall to Thee ascend.
Yes! Thou wilt breathe a spirit o'er my lyre,
And "fill my beating heart with sacred fire!"
And when to Thee my youth, my life, I've given,
Raise me, to join Eliza,* blest in Heaven.

SONNET TO MY MOTHER.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF TWELVE.

To thee, maternal guardian of my youth,
I pour the genuine numbers free from art;
The lays inspired by gratitude and truth,

For thou wilt prize the effusion of the heart.
Oh! be it mine, with sweet and pious care,
To calm thy bosom in the hour of grief;
With soothing tenderness to chase the tear,
With fond endearments to impart relief.
Be mine thy warm affection to repay

With duteous love in thy declining hours;
My filial hand shall strew unfading flowers,
Perennial roses to adorn thy way;

Still may thy grateful children round thee smile, Their pleasing care affliction shall beguile.

A sister whom the author had lost.