MARY LEE. I HAVE traced the valleys fair Wilt thou deign the wreath to wear, They are not flowers of Pride, Can they fear thy frowns the while, Here's the lily of the vale, Like thine own purity. My esteem for thee. Surely flowers can bear no blame, Here's the violet's modest blue, "That 'neath hawthorns hides from view, My gentle Mary Lee, Would show whose heart is true, While it thinks of thee. While they choose each lowly spot, My charming Mary Lee; So I've brought the flowers to plead, Here's a wild rose just in bud; Though a blush is scarcely seen, Can make excuse for me. Though they deck no princely halls, Love would make them dearer still, My wreathed flowers are few, Some may boast a richer prize Than this of mine to thee; And can true love wish for more? Surely not, Mary Lee! CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH NORTON, the second daughter of Thomas, and the grand-daughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, was born in London. Soon after the union of Mr. Sheridan with her mother (the daughter of Colonel and Lady Elizabeth Callander), he became consumptive, and was induced to try the effects of a warmer climate upon his constitution. His wife accompanied him to Madeira, and subsequently to the Cape, where, after lingering two or three years, he died. His still young and beautiful widow returned to England, to superintend the education of her children,a task to which she devoted herself with engrossing zeal, passing the best and generally the vainest years of a woman's life, apart from the gay world; indifferent to the lures of society, and sacrificing even her personal comforts to advance their interests and form their minds. To this accomplished and excellent parent may be attributed much of Mrs. Norton's literary fame,-it forms another link in that long chain of hereditary genius which has now been extended through a whole century. Her sister, Lady Dufferin, is also a writer of considerable taste and power; her publications have been anonymous, and she is disinclined to seek that notoriety which the "pursuits of literature" obtain;-but those who are acquainted with the productions of her pen, will readily acknowledge' their surpassing merit. The sisters used, in their childish days, to write together, and, before either of them had attained the age of twelve years, they produced two little books of prints and verses, called "The Dandies' Ball," and "The Travelled Dandies;" both being imitations of a species of caricature then in vogue. But we believe that, at a much earlier period, Mrs. Norton had written poetry, which even now she would not be ashamed to see in print. Her disposition to" scribble" was, however, checked rather than encouraged by her mother; for a long time, pen, ink, and paper were denied to the young Poetess, and works of fiction carefully kept out of her way, with a view of compelling a resort to occupations of a more useful character. Her active and energetic mind, notwithstanding, soon accomplished its cherished purpose. At the age of seventeen she wrote "The Sorrows of Rosalie ;" and, although it was not published until some time afterwards, she had scarcely passed her girlhood before she had established for herself the distinction which had long been attached to her maiden name. At the age of nineteen Miss Sheridan was married to the Hon. George Chapple Norton, brother to the present Lord Grantley. He had proposed for her three years previously, but the mother had postponed the contract until the daughter was better qualified to fix her choice. These years had enabled her to make an acquaintance with one whose early death prevented a union more consonant to her feelings. When Mr. Norton again sought her hand he received it. It is unnecessary to add that the marriage has not been a happy one: the world has heard the slanders to which she has been exposed; and a verdict of acquittal from all who for a moment listened to them can scarcely have atoned for the cruel and baseless suspicions to which she has been subjected. Although the subject is a painful one, it is impossible to withhold allusion to it in any memoir of this accomplished lady. The principal poems of Mrs. Norton are "The Sorrows of Rosalie," "The Undying One," and "The Lady of La Garaye." Her minor compositions are, however, numerous. She is also the author of several novels; chief of which is "Stuart of Dunleath;" and, it is said, has been a contributor to some of the leading political periodical works of the day. She has thus written much, notwithstanding that her high position has compelled her to concede to the demands that society has continually made upon her time. Mrs. Norton is eminently beautiful; her form is peculiarly graceful and dignified; and her features are exquisitely chiselled,-but hers is that intellectual beauty with which there is usually mingled a degree of haughtiness. She must occupy a high station among female authors, of which our age may boast a long and dazzling list. Her poetry is distinguished both by grace and energy. She is, perhaps, deficient in that inventive faculty in which some of her contemporaries have so greatly excelled; but her productions are full of thought,-there is nothing of the aspect of poverty in anything she has written; on the contrary, her ideas seem too large and abundant for her verse; and she far more often crowds her materials than ekes out a description by words that might be dispensed with. Low she lies, who blest our eyes Yet there is a world of light beyond, Where we neither die nor sleep; She is there, of whom our souls were fond, Then wherefore do we weep? The heart is cold, whose thoughts were told And she lies pale, who was so bright, Yet we know that her soul is happy now, Where the saints their calm watch keep : That angels are crowning that fair young brow,-Then wherefore do we weep? Her laughing voice made all rejoice, Yet we know she sings by God's bright throne,-- The cheek's pale tinge, the lid's dark fringe, That lies like a sh: dow there, Were beautiful in the eyes of all,— And her glossy golden hair! She is gone where young hearts do not break, Then wherefore do we weep? That world of light with joy is bright, This is a world of woe: Shall we grieve that her soul hath taken flight, Because we dwell below? We will bury her under the mossy sod, THE MOTHER'S HEART. WHEN first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond, |