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No. 590.

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. Records of Woman; and other Poems. By Felicia Hemans. 12mo. pp. 320. Edinburgh, 1828, Blackwood: London, Cadell. THIS volume, from the pen of one of our most sweet and graceful poets, has just imparted a charming variety to our week's labours; and we hasten to communicate some of the pleasure it has afforded us to our readers. Of the fair writer's talents and peculiar qualities, it is now unnecessary to speak: her tenderness, fine feeling, moral beauty, and melodious versification, are justly appreciated by the public, and have long placed her in the front rank among the female ornaments of English literature. In the present work she has chosen a subject, or rather a chain of connected subjects, well suited to her genius;-the Records of Woman flow delightfully from her muse.

These poems are devoted to illustrate many instances of love, fidelity, misfortune, in which the hearts of the sex have led them to act distinguished parts. Honourable memorials of virtues which render them the blessings of this created world, and breathing descriptions of their passions and emotions, are to be found in every little tale. Some embrace historical facts, and others dwell on slighter incidents; but all tend to elevate the character of the dearest and most excellent portion of human nature. Of these we shall offer a few examples.

The first Record is of the Lady Arabella Stuart, whose union with William Seymour, son of Lord Beauchamp, led to their imprisonment by James I. Their mutual love, and its fatal consequences, the attempt to escape, and the unfortunate recapture of the lady, are told in a touching style; and the piece concludes with still more affecting traits of lone sufferings, ending in the near view of death, which relieves the captive. Their earliest joys are thus narrated

"We, that met and parted, Ever in dread of some dark watchful power, Won back to childhood's trust, and, fearless-hearted, Blent the glad fulness of our thoughts that hour, Ev'n like the mingling of sweet streams beneath Dim woven leaves, and midst the floating breath Of hidden forest flowers.

'Tis past!-I wake,

A captive, and alone, and far from thee,
My love and friend! Yet fostering, for thy sake,
A quenchless hope of happiness to be;
And feeling still my woman's spirit strong,
In the deep faith which lifts from earthly wrong,
A heavenward glance. I know, I know our love
Shall yet call gentle angels from above,
By its undying fervour."

The expectation of escape is equally poetical.

"Sunset!--I tell each moment-from the skies The last red splendour floats along my wall, Like a king's banner!-Now it melts, it dies!

I see one star-I hear-'twas not the call,

Th' expected voice; my quick heart throbb'd too soon.

I must keep vigil till yon rising moon

Shower down less golden light. Beneath her beam
Through my lone lattice pour'd, I sit and dream

Of summer-lands afar, where holy love,

Under the vine, or in the citron-grove,

May breathe from terror.

Now the night grows deep,

And silent as its clouds, and full of sleep.

I bear my veins beat. Hark! a bell's slow chime.

My heart strikes with it. Yet again-'tis time!
A step!--a voice!-or but a rising breeze?
Hark-haste -I come, to meet thee on the seas."

Brothers long parted meet; fair children rise
Round the glad board; Hope laughs from loving eyes:
All this is in the world!-These joys lie sown,
The dew of every path-on one alone
Their freshness may not fall-the stricken deer,
Dying of thirst with all the waters near.

Ye are from dingle and fresh glade, ye flowers

By some kind hand to cheer my dungeon sent;
O'er you the oak shed down the summer showers,
And the lark's nest was where your bright cups bent,
Quivering to breeze and rain-drop, like the sheen
Of twilight stars. On you Heaven's eye hath been,
Through the leaves pouring its dark sultry blue
Into your glowing hearts; the bee to you

Hath murmur'd, and the rill. My soul grows faint
With passionate yearning, as its quick dreams paint
Your haunts by dell and stream, the green, the free,
The full of all sweet sound,-the shut from me l
There went a swift bird singing past my cell-
O love and freedom! ye are lovely things!
With you the peasant on the hills may dwell,
And by the streams; but I-the blood of kings,
A proud, unmingling river, through my veins
Flows in lone brightness,-and its gifts are chains!

Thou hast forsaken me! I feel, I know,
There would be rescue if this were not so.
Thou'rt at the chase, thou'rt at the festive board,
Thou'rt where the red wine free and high is pour'd,
Thou'rt where the dancers meet!-a magic glass
Is set within my soul, and proud shapes pass,
Flushing it o'er with pomp from bower and hall;~
I see one shadow, stateliest there of all,-
Thine!-What dost thou amidst the bright and fair,
Whispering light words, and mocking my despair?
It is not well of thee!-my love was more
Than fiery song may breathe, deep thought explore;
And there thou smilest, while my heart is dying,
With all its blighted hopes around it lying;
E'en thou, on whom they hung their last green leaf-
Yet smile, smile on! too bright art thou for grief!

Farewell! and yet once more,
Farewell!-the passion of long years I pour
Into that word thou hear'st not,-but the wo
And fervour of its tones may one day flow
To thy heart's holy place; there let them dwell—
We shall o'ersweep the grave to meet-Farewell!"

All this is most natural and pathetic; but we must pass to the still more tragical story of Gertrude von der Wart, whose devotedness to her husband on the rack has been related in prose in our Journal and other publications. "Her hands were clasp'd, her dark eyes raised, The breeze threw back her hair;

Up to the fearful wheel she gazed

All that she loved was there.

The night was round her clear and cold,
The holy heaven above,

Its pale stars watching to behold

The might of earthly love.

And bid me not depart,' she cried,

My Rudolph, say not so!

This is no time to quit thy side;

Peace, peace, I cannot go.

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Hath the world aught for me to fear
When death is on thy brow?

The world! what means it?-mine is here-
I will not leave thee now.

I have been with thee in thine hour

Of glory and of bliss;

Doubt not its memory's living power
To strengthen me through this!
And thou, mine honour'd love and true,
Bear on, bear nobly on!

We have the blessed heaven in view,
Whose rest shall soon be won.'

And were not these high words to flow
From woman's breaking heart?
Through all that night of bitterest wo
She bore her lofty part;

But oh! with such a glazing eye,
With such a curdling cheek-
Love, love! of mortal agony,

Thou, only thou shouldst speak!
The wind rose high,-but with it rose
Her voice, that he might hear:
Perchance that dark hour brought repose
To happy bosoms near,

While she sat striving with despair
Beside his tortured form,

And pouring her deep soul in prayer
Forth on the rushing storm."

She wiped the death-damps from his brow,
With her pale hands and soft,
Whose touch upon the lute-chords low
Had still'd his heart so oft.

She spread her mantle o'er his breast,
She bath'd his lips with dew,
And on his cheek such kisses press'd
As hope and joy ne'er knew.
Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith,
Enduring to the last!

She had her meed-one smile in death-
And his worn spirit pass'd.

While ev'n as o'er a martyr's grave

She knelt on that sad spot,
And, weeping, bless'd the God who gave
Strength to forsake it not!"

From Edith, an American-wood tale, we shall quote only the conclusion, which has pleased us much by its mournful solemnity. "And she was passing from the woods away;

The broken flower of England might not stay
Amidst those alien shades; her eye was bright
Ev'n yet with something of a starry light,
But her form wasted, and her fair young cheek
Wore oft and patiently a fatal streak,

A rose whose root was death. The parting sigh
Of autumn through the forests had gone by,
And the rich maple o'er her wanderings lone
Its crimson leaves in many a shower had strown,
Flushing the air; and winter's blast had been
Amidst the pines; and now a softer green
Fringed their dark boughs; for spring again had come,
The sunny spring! but Edith to her home
Was journeying fast. Alas! we think it sad
To part with life when all the earth looks glad
In her young lovely things, when voices break
Into sweet sounds, and leaves and blossoms wake:
Is it not brighter, then, in that far clime
Where graves are not, nor blights of changeful time,
If here such glory dwell with passing blooms,
Such golden sunshine rest around the tombs ?
So thought the dying one. 'Twas early day,
And sounds and odours with the breezes play,
Whispering of spring-time, through the cabin-door,
Unto her couch life's farewell sweetness bore;
Then with a look where all her hope awoke,
My father!'-to the gray-hair'd chief she spoke-
.' Know'st thou that I depart?'- I know, I know,'

He answer'd mournfully, that thou must go
To thy belov'd, my daughter! Sorrow not
For me, kind mother!' with meek smiles once more
She murmur'd in low tones; one happy lot
Awaits us, friends! upon the better shore;
For we have pray'd together in one trust,
And lifted our frail spirits from the dust,
To God who gave them. Lay me by mine own,
Under the cedar-shade: where he is gone,

Thither I go. There will my sisters be,

And the dead parents, lisping at whose knee

My childhood's prayer was learn'd,-the Saviour's

Father, and gentle mother !-ye have bound
The bruised reed, and mercy shall be found
By Mercy's children.'-From the matron's eye
Dropp'd tears, her sole and passionate reply;
But Edith felt them not; for now a sleep
Solemnly beautiful, a stillness deep,
Fell on her settled face. Then, sad and slow,
And mantling up his stately head in wo,

Thou'rt passing hence,' he sang, that warrior old, In sounds like those by plaintive waters roll'd.

Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side,
And the hunter's hearth away;

For the time of flowers, for the summer's pride,
Daughter! thou canst not stay.

Thou'rt journeying to thy spirit's home,
Where the skies are ever clear;
The corn-month's golden hours will come,
But they shall not find thee here.

And we shall miss thy voice, my bird!
Under our whispering pine;
Music shall midst the leaves be heard,
But not a song like thine.

A breeze that roves o'er stream and hill,
Telling of winter gone,

Hath such sweet falls-yet caught we still
A farewell in its tone.

But thou my bright one! thou shalt be
Where farewell sounds are o'er ;
Thou, in the eyes thou lov'st, shalt see
No fear of parting more.

The mossy grave thy tears have wet,
And the wind's wild moanings by,
Thou with thy kindred shalt forget,
Midst flowers-not such as die.

The shadow from thy brow shall melt
The sorrow from thy strain;

But where thine earthly smile hath dwelt,
Our hearts shall thirst in vain.

Dim will our cabin be, and lone,
When thou, its light, art fled;

Yet hath thy step the pathway shewn
Unto the happy dead.

And we will follow thee, our guide!

And join that shining band;

Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side

Go to the better land!'

The song had ceased-the listeners caught no breath,
That lovely sleep had melted into death."

Nearly a third of the volume is given to miscellaneous productions, some of which have previously appeared in print. We, however, select the following, as affording adequate means of judging of the delightful author's various powers.

"The Captive Knight.

'Twas a trumpet's pealing sound!

And the knight look'd down from the Paynim's tower, And a Christian host, in its pride and power,

Through the pass beneath him wound.

Cease awhile, clarion! Clarion, wild and shrill,
Cease, let them hear the captive's voice-be still!

I knew 'twas a trumpet's note!

And I see my brethren's lances gleam,
And their pennons wave by the mountain stream,
And their plumes to the glad wind float!
Cease awhile, clarion! Clarion, wild and shrill,
Cease let them hear the captive's voice-be still!

I am here, with my heavy chain!
And I look on a torrent sweeping by,
And an eagle rushing to the sky,

And a host to its battle-plain!

Cease awhile, clarion! Clarion, wild and shrill,
Cease! let them hear the captive's voice-be still!

Must I pine in my fetters here?

With the wild wave's foam, and the free bird's flight, And the tall spears glancing on my sight,

And the trumpet in mine ear?

Cease awhile, clarion! Clarion, wild and shrill,
Cease! let them hear the captive's voice-be still!

They are gone! they have all pass'd by!
They in whose wars I had borne my part,
They that I loved with a brother's heart,
They have left me here to die!

Sound again, clarion! Clarion, pour thy blast!
Sound! for the captive's dream of hope is past.""
"The Kaiser's Feast.

The Kaiser feasted in his hall,
The red wine mantled high;
Banners were trembling on the wall,

To the peals of minstrelsy:

And many a gleam and sparkle came
From the armour hung around,

As it caught the glance of the torch's flame,
Or the hearth with pine-boughs crown'd.

Why fell there silence on the chord
Beneath the harper's hand?

And suddenly, from that rich board,
Why rose the wassail-band?

The strings were hush'd-the knights made way
For the queenly mother's tread,
As up the hall, in dark array,
Two fair-hair'd boys she led.

She led them e'en to the Kaiser's place,
And still before him stood;

Till, with strange wonder, o'er his face
Flush'd the proud warrior-blood:
And Speak, my mother! speak!' he cried,
Wherefore this mourning vest?
And the clinging children by thy side,
In weeds of sadness drest?'

Well may a mourning vest be mine,
And theirs, my son, my son!
Look on the features of thy line
In each fair little one!
Though grief awhile within their eyes
Hath tamed the dancing glee,
Yet there thine own quick spirit lies→
Thy brother's children see!

And where is he, thy brother, where?
He, in thy home that grew,
And smiling, with his sunny hair,
Ever to greet thee flew?
How would his arms thy neck entwine,
His fond lips press thy brow!
My son! oh, call these orphans thine---
Thou hast no brother now!

What! from their gentle eyes doth nought
Speak of thy childhood's hours,
And smite thee with a tender thought
Of thy dead father's towers?
Kind was thy boyish heart and true,
When rear'd together there,
Through the old woods like fawns ye flew-
Where is thy brother-where?

Well didst thou love him then, and he
Still at thy side was seen!

How is it that such things can be,

As though they ne'er had been?
Evil was this world's breath, which came
Between the good and brave!

Now must the tears of grief and shame
Be offer'd to the grave.

And let them, let them there be pour'd!
Though all unfelt below,

Thine own wrung heart, to love restored,
Shall soften as they flow.

Oh! death is mighty to make peace;
Now bid his work be done!

So many an inward strife shall cease-
Take, take these babes, my son!'

His eye was dimm'd-the strong man shook
With feelings long suppress'd;
Up in his arms the boys he took,

And strain'd them to his breast.
And a shout from all in the royal hall
Burst forth to hail the sight;

And eyes were wet, midst the brave that met
At the Kaiser's feast that night."
"The Sunbeam.

Thou art no lingerer in monarch's hall,
A joy thou art, and a wealth to all!
A bearer of hope unto land and sea-
Sunbeam! what gift hath the world like thee?
Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles
Thou hast touch'd with glory his thousand isles;
Thou hast lit up the ships, and the feathery foam,
And gladden'd the sailor, like words from home.
To the solemn depths of the forest shades,
Thou art streaming on through their green arcades,
And the quivering leaves that have caught thy glow,
Like fire-flies glance to the pools below.

I look'd on the mountains-a vapour lay
Folding their heights in its dark array:
Thou brakest forth-and the mist became
A crown and a mantle of living flame.

I look'd on the peasant's lowly cot-
Something of sadness had wrapt the spot ;-
But a gleam of thee on its lattice fell,
And it laugh'd into beauty at that bright spell.
To the earth's wild places a guest thou art,
Flushing the waste like the rose's heart;
And thou scornest not from thy pomp to shed
A tender smile on the ruin's head.

Thou tak'st through the dim church-isle thy way,
And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day,
And its high pale tombs, with their trophies old,
Are bathed in a flood as of molten gold.

And thou turnest not from the humblest grave,
Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave;
Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest,
Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast.
Sunbeam of summer! oh! what is like thee?
Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea!-
One thing is like thee to mortals given,
The faith touching all things with hues of heaven!"
After reading these pieces, we are sure we
need add no word of eulogy upon this charm-
ing volume,

Mexico in 1827. By H. G. Ward, Esq., his Majesty's Chargé d'Affaires in that Country during the Years 1825, 1826, and part of 1827. 2 vols. 8vo. London. H. Colburn. ENJOYING, both from official station and long residence, the best opportunities for becoming fully acquainted with the state of Mexico, Mr. Ward has here turned these advantages to the most profitable account, and produced a sterling work upon a subject of great and grow. ing interest. But, unluckily for us, in the first instance, the very merits and elaborate nature of his work prevent us from doing it justice, at the hasty glance we are able to take previous to this week's publication. Indeed, we can only say, we have seen enough of it to be satisfied with its features of particular attraction and general importance.

The first volume furnishes an excellent history of the revolution in Mexico; and Mr. Ward explains his object very accurately in the preface.

"I have (he says) conceived that it ought to be my object to combine as much information as possible in my present work, and thus to render it independent of those which have preceded it, by entering into details, a knowledge of which could not have been derived from other sources, without a perpetual and harassing reference to authorities, many of which are not within the reach of the public in general. For instance, in addition to the Essai Politique of Baron Humboldt, to which I have expressed my obligations in another place, I have drawn largely from the Español; whose eloquent author, Mr. Blanco White, has embodied not only the most curious collection of state papers now extant, with regard to the period at which the tendency towards independence first began to appear in the Spanish colonies, but a mass of reflections upon American affairs, so moderate, so judicious, and so admirably adapted to the circumstances of the times, that, had his counsels been listened to by the contending parties, no small portion of the calamities which have since befallen them might have been averted. I have likewise made free use, in my sketch of the revolution, of the Cuadro Historico of Don Carlos Bustamante, as well as of Robinson, Brackenbridge, and a number of other works published in the United States, and but little read in England, from each of which I have taken whatever my own observations pointed out as correct. The whole will, I think, be found to indicate with sufficient clearness the causes of the American revolution; and these, again, are the best guarantee for its stability.'

On the question of the mines, Mr. W. is even more sanguine than Captain Lyon, and his authority is of the greatest weight. He states: "I never have possessed a single mining share; yet, from circumstances stated in the body of my work, I have, perhaps, seen more of the mines of New Spain, and am in possession of more data with regard to their former produce, than the majority of those whose fortunes depend upon the present attempt to work them by foreign capital. With regard to my opinion of their present prospects, the public is now in possession of the data upon which it is formed, and may rectify any errors into which I may inConvinced advertently have been betrayed.

that publicity ought to be desired by all the mining companies, as the only security against those suspicions by which their credit has been so frequently shaken, I have laid before the world, without reserve, the whole of the information now in my possession respecting them, together with my own observations upon