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HOPE.

ETHEREAL Hope! how can a poet's song,
Recount the praises that to thee belong!
How shall his trembling fingers dare aspire
To wake thy glories on his feeble lyre!

But that he long hath known and felt thy flame,
With glowing rapture burning through his frame.
Thou art through life our surest guiding star,
Seen in thy radiance gleaming from afar;
Bright as a meteor, sparkling as a gem,
Like the lone star that led to Bethlehem.
O may thy banner long triumphant wave,
To shield the suffering or protect the slave;
Befriend the orphan, dry the widow's tears,
And point to brighter and to happier years.
O may all ages read thy starlit scroll,
Hope springs immortal in the human soul.
Where can the widow'd mother solace find,
But in thy ray, beneficent and kind?

Needs she not comfort when she sheds the tear
For him who lived for her, and lov'd her dear;
When the fond partner of her heart is gone,
And she stands helpless-in the world alone!
Around her hearth her prattling children stand,
A gay, unconscious, smiling, happy band;
With what a parent's fondness, look of joy,
She turns towards her dear, her only boy:
In him she sees, dispelling all her fears,
The prop and succour of her failing years.
"Tis then the smile of Hope hath sweetest charms,
And chaseth from her bosom dread alarms;

The all consoling joy its power doth bring,

Thrills through her heart and wakes each subtle string. But should he, lured by folly's artful smile,

Lean to dishonour, or consent to guile;

Who in the woful hour, when sorrows press,
Will fondly soothe him, weep for his distress;

Who, when life's fickle friends shall faithless prove,
Will cling unto him with undying love?

None but a Mother, she alone remains,

With love unsullied flowing through her veins.

Ne'er since the hour when from her breast he drew
The stream of life, has she proved once untrue;
No selfish thoughts have in her bosom grown,
Her hope concentres in his form alone.

(O well ordain'd, that man should never know

The hidden source from whence such worth doth flow!)
She ne'er upbraids, nor adds the cruel smart
Of keen reproaches to his guilty heart.
Half frantic sees him from her bosom torn,
Then weeps unseen, heartbroken, and forlorn.
Yet mid her grief sweet memory oft will tell
Of happy times, those days she loved so well;
Hope bids her dream that he perhaps may come
To cheer again her desolated home!

View the dim room, where on a couch appears

The fading remnant of a few brief years;

Whose hectic cheek, and deep drawn breathings, show
That life's enfeebled taper flickers low;

Ere yet the film of death enshrouds the eye,

Or wears the dull fix'd look of vacancy;

Ere yet expires the half extinguished flame,
His wife attends him, fondly breathes his name,

Tells him how Hope can soothes his quickening pain,
That they shall meet in happier realms again.
Poor weeping woman, prostrate in distress
She scarcely heeds his eager last caress.
'Tis hard, he cries, by ruthless death to part!
And folds the trembling weeper to his heart.
Sad is thy work, O Death, thy cruel blow
Sends to our hearts unutterable woe;
Our schemes, our visions vanish in an hour,
As empires fall beneath a tyrant's power.
Yet Hope remains, triumphant Hope is here,
To nerve our hearts, and free our souls from fear.
To heaven her beacon points; there lies the end,
The Utopian shore to which our lives should tend:
There is the land of Hope-isle of the blest!

There long-mourned spirits meet, commune, and are at rest!

W. B. A.

MY EARLY FRIEND.

WHERE is the sunny brow, the soft and sportive glee.

The step of fairy lightness, the laugh of melody?

My early friend! we parted in the spring-time of thine years:
I prayed that peace might be thy lot through this sad vale of tears;
Some traces of time's work, of earth's woes, I looked to see,
But not this silent stamp, alas! of hopeless misery.

My early friend! thy guileless heart was tender as the dove,
With clinging trust and faith in those, who sought thy youthful love;
Harsh words and cold reproving looks were never known by thee,
And thy sweet tears were shed alone in purest sympathy:
Not loss of children, friends, or kin, not poverty's sharp care,
Hath stamped thy snowy brow with that look of mute despair.

'Twas the slow but dread awakening to a strange and lingering doom, The apathetic blight of mind, which cast its chilling gloom;

Amid the world of strangers, uncherished and unknown,
Ah! easy 'twas to crush thee, my loving, gentle one!
The flowers of a hardy kind can bear the nipping frost,

But delicate and fragile things soon by neglect are lost.

Too well, too late thou know'st, I would have died to save thee,
From every pang that must await our earthly destiny;
Thy life should'st have been poetry, and music, and delight,
And thou, the fairy spirit, the brightest of the bright.
But angels now await thee, thy home is with the blest,
My early friend! my gentle friend! betake thee to thy rest!

C. A. M. W.

LITERATURE.

NOTICES OF NEW WORKS.

Noble Deeds of Woman, or Examples of Female Courage and Virtue. By Elizabeth Starling. Third Edition. London: Henry G. Bohn.

To review a work which has reached a third edition, appears almost an act of supererogation, as that would seem sufficiently to testify the high appreciation in which it is already held by the public in general. But it is not so; there may be some, and, even amongst the numerous and enlightened readers of the Metropolitan Magazine," who have only a superficial knowledge of this treasury of female heroism, tenderness, self-devotion, and presence of mind, truly astonishing, truly admirable, truly angelic, and yet of which not one woman should be ignorant. For, although it may please a gracious God to preserve her from the peculiar trials which elicited the instances of extraordinary greatness and superiority, of which she must really stand in awe, as fearing the power of imitation; still, as it is impossible to say for what any of us are reserved, in a world teeming with eventful changes and startling vicissitudes, it is as well to know of what a woman can be capable, when the energies of her soul, the affections of her heart are called into action; to shield and save those dearer to her than life-the father, brother, son, or husband. How she can, then, throw aside every selfish consideration, every idea or fear, foregoing every long-accustomed feminine custom and luxury, enduring every fatigue, braving every danger, submitting to every indignity, and, in fact, becoming more courageous than man, because stimulated to exertion by a more godlike purpose.

In the volume before us, we have nearly three hundred well authenticated proofs of the " Noble Deeds of Woman," displayed in her "maternal, filial, sisterly, and conjugal affection, humanity, integrity, benevolence, courage, presence of mind, hos

pitality, gratitude, loyalty, eloquence and patriotism." What a glorious list! Well might the cardinal virtues be designated feminine! Who shall now cant about the limited "rights of woman?" Has she not, has she not ever had, the most enviable, the most inalienable of all rights, that of evincing the fidelity, the affection which is ever strongest in adversity? Of rearing her sons to honour, her daughters to chastity, encouraging the one sex to integrity by the reward awaiting it from the other, and only to be obtained by uprightness, boldness, and a manly disdain of corruption or danger?

Has she not the right of shedding the light of happiness around the domestic hearth, in the season of man's tranquillity and joy; and of being still more radiantly bright for him, in the dark and sullen hour of grief and misfortune?

Has she not the right of silencing the sceptic tongue, and compelling the libertine eye to quail before the majesty of virtue? Has she not the right of inspiring piety by her precept and example, and teaching the erring heart to seek for that peace which indeed passes man's understanding?

O woman! great and grand are thy rights; mighty, most mighty are thy privileges! Use them only as the Giver of all good intended thee to use them, for his glory and the salvation of mankind!

That such a work should have been compiled by a woman, appears most meet. None but a woman would have had the patience necessary for such research, yet, that it was a labour of love to the fair authoress, appears evident throughout. We therefore, can only offer her our sincere congratulation on the success it has already met with, with the ardent hope of a fourfold increase ere long, unmixed with one feeling of that commiseration, the thought of overtasked literary toil invariably begets in those who can feel for others.

Spiritual Heroes; or, Sketches of the Puritans, their Character and Times. By John Stoughton, author of "Windsor in the Olden Time." London: Jackson and Walford.

We have delayed our notice of this interesting work, in the hope that we should have been able to give to it more than a slight notice; in this respect, however, we have been disappointed. We now mention the work, to commend it heartily to all who desire to be familiar with one of the brightest pages presented by the history of the past. Mr. Stoughton is a careful workman, and has skilfully brought together things new and old.

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