unnecessary, and we have already transgressed our limits; we will, therefore, give but one extract of that soothing nature alluded to, and release our readers:—

'Yet was there mercy still—if joy no more,* &c.

"It is time to close this article.* Our readers will have seen, and we do not deny, that we have been much interested by our subject: who or what Mrs Hemans is we know not: we have been told that, like a poet of antiquity:

'Tristia vita

Solatur cantu,'

If it be so (and the most sensible hearts are not uncommonly nor unnaturally the most bitterly wounded), she seems, from the tenor of her writings, to bear about her a higher and a surer balsam than the praises of men, or even the (sacred muse' herself can impart. Still there is a pleasure, an innocent and an honest pleasure, even to a wounded spirit, in fame fairly earned; and such fame as may wait upon our decision, we freely and conscientiously bestow;— in our opinion, all her poems are elegant and pure in thought and language; her later poems are of higher promise, they are vigorous, picturesque, and pathetic."

Quarterly Review, vol. xxiv.

* This critique, from the pen of the venerable and distinguished Editor, William GifFord, Esq., comprehended strictures on " The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy,"—" Tales and Historic Scenes in Verse,"— "Translations from Camoens," &c,—" The Sceptic," and " Stanzas to the Memory of the late King."

A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY.

A. FRAGMENT.

The moonbeam, quivering o'er the wave,

Sleeps in pale gold on wood and hill, The wild wind slumbers in its cave,

And heaven is cloudless—earth is still! The pile, that crowns yon savage height With battlements of Gothic might, Rises in softer pomp array'd, Its massy towers half lost in shade, Half touch'd with mellowing light! The rays of night, the tints of time,

Soft-mingling on its dark-grey stone,
O'er its rude strength and mien sublime,

A placid smile have thrown;
And far beyond, where wild and high,
Bounding the pale blue summer sky,
A mountain-vista meets the eye,
Its dark, luxuriant woods assume
A penciTd shade, a softer gloom;
Its jutting cliffs have caught the light,
Its torrents glitter through the night,
While every cave and deep recess
Frowns in more shadowy awfulness.

Scarce moving on the glassy deep
Yon gallant vessel seems to sleep,

But darting from its side,
How swiftly does its boat design
A slender, silvery, waving line

Of radiance o'er the tide!
No sound is on the summer seas,

But the low dashing of the oar,
And faintly sighs the midnight breeze

Through woods that fringe the rocky shore. —That boat has reach'd the silent bay, The dashing oar has ceased to play, The breeze has murmur'd and has died In forest-shades, on ocean's tide. No step, no tone, no breath of sound Disturbs the loneliness profound; And midnight spreads o'er earth and main

A calm so holy and so deep,
That voice of mortal were profane,

To break on nature s sleep!
It is the hour for thought to soar,

High o'er the cloud of earthly woes;
For rapt devotion to adore,

For passion to repose;
And virtue to forget her tears,
In visions of sublimer spheres!
For oh! those transient gleams of heaven,
To calmer, purer spirits given,
Children of hallow'd peace, are known
In solitude and shade alone!
Like flowers that shun the blaze of noon.
To blow beneath the midnight moon,

The garish world they will not bless,
But only live in loneliness!

Hark! did some note of plaintive swell

Melt on the stillness of the air?
Or was it fancy's powerful spell

That woke such sweetness there?
For wild and distant it arose,
Like sounds that bless the bard's repose,
When in lone wood, or mossy cave
He dreams beside some fountain-wave,
And fairy worlds delight the eyes
Wearied with life's realities.
—Was it illusion ?—yet again
Rises and falls th* enchanted strain

Mellow, and sweet, and faint,
As if some spirit's touch had given
The soul of sound to harp of heaven

To soothe a dying saint!
Is it the mermaid's distant shell,

Warbling beneath the moonlit wave? —Such witching tones might lure full well

The seaman to his grave!
Sure from no mortal touch ye rise,
Wild, soft, aerial melodies!
—Is it the song of woodland-fay

From sparry grot, or haunted bower?
Hark! floating on, the magic lay

Draws near yon ivied tower"! Now nearer still, the listening ear May catch sweet harp notes, faint, yet clear; And accents low, as if in fear,

Thus murmur, half suppressed :—
"Awake ! the moon is bright on high,
The sea is calm, the bark is nigh,

The world is hush'd to rest J"
Then sinks the voice—the strain is o'er,
Its last low cadence dies along the shore.

Fair Bertha hears th' expected song,
Swift from her tower she glides along;
No echo to her tread awakes,
Her fairy step no slumber breaks,
And, in that hour of silence deep,
While all around the dews of sleep
O'erpower each sense, each eyelid steep,
Quick throbs her heart with hope and fear.
Her dark eye glistens with a tear.
Half-wavering now, the varying cheek
And sudden pause, her doubts bespeak,
The lip now flush'd, now pale as death,
The trembling frame, the fluttering breath!
Oh! in that moment, o'er her soul,
What struggling passions claim control!
Fear, duty, love, in conflict high,
By turns have won th' ascendency;
And as, all tremulously bright,
Streams o'er her face the beam of night,
What thousand mix'd emotions play
O'er that fair face, and melt away:
Like forms whose quick succession gleams
O'er fancy's rainbow-tinted dreams;
Like the swift glancing lights that rise
'Midst the wild cloud of stormy sides,