ALARIC WATTS.

FOR fastidiousness of taste and elaborateness of finish, few poets of the present century excel Alaric Watts; and he has written some pieces no less distinguished for true pathos. "He has given abundant proof," says Mr. Moir, "if not of high creative strength, of gentle pathos, of cultivated intellect, and an eye and ear sensitively alive to all the genial impulses of nature, of home-bred delights, and heartfelt happiness: he is always elegant and refined, and looks on carelessness—as every man of taste and accomplishment should-as a vice unworthy of an artist; for poetry, assuredly, requires the learned skill, intuitive as that may occasionally seem, as well as the teeming fancy."

Mr. Watts's publications are "Lyrics of the Heart, and other Poems;" "Poetical Album, Two Series," (a most judicious and tasteful selection of the fugitive poetry of living English poets;) "Sketches," and "Scenes of Life, and Shades of Character," two volumes.

DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN.

"Fare thee well, thou first and fairest."-BURNS.

My sweet one, my sweet one, the tears were in my eyes

When first I clasp'd thee to my heart, and heard thy feeble cries;—
For I thought of all that I had borne, as I bent me down to kiss
Thy cherry lips and sunny brow, my first-born bud of bliss!

I turn'd to many a wither'd hope, to years of grief and pain,

And the cruel wrongs of a bitter world flash'd o'er my boding brain;—
I thought of friends grown worse than cold-of persecuting foes,
And I ask'd of Heaven if ills like these must mar thy youth's repose?

I gazed upon thy quiet face, half blinded by my tears,

Till gleams of bliss, unfelt before, came brightening on my fears:
Sweet rays of hope, that fairer shone mid the clouds of gloom that bound

them,

As stars dart down their loveliest light when midnight skies are round them.

My sweet one, my sweet one, thy life's brief hour is o'er,
And a father's anxious fears for thee can fever me no more!
And for the hopes, the sun-bright hopes that blossom'd at thy birth,—
They, too, have fled, to prove how frail are cherish'd things of earth!
Cradled in thy fair mother's arms, we watch'd thee, day by day,
Pale like the second bow of heaven-as gently waste away;
And, sick with dark foreboding fears we dared not breathe aloud,
Sat, hand in hand, in speechless grief, to wait death's coming cloud!

It came at length;-o'er thy bright blue eye the film was gathering fast,
And an awful shade pass'd o'er thy brow, the deepest and the last;
In thicker gushes strove thy breath,-we raised thy drooping head;
A moment more-the final pang-and thou wert of the dead!

Thy gentle mother turn'd away to hide her face from me,

And murmur'd low of Heaven's behests, and bliss attain'd by thee;

She would have chid me that I mourn'd a doom so blest as thine,
Had not her own deep grief burst forth in tears as wild as mine!
We laid thee down in thy sinless rest, and from thine infant brow
Cull'd one soft lock of radiant hair, our only solace now;

Then placed around thy beauteous corse flowers not more fair and sweet,-
Twin rosebuds in thy little hands, and jasmine at thy feet.

Though other offspring still be ours, as fair perchance as thou,
With all the beauty of thy cheek, the sunshine of thy brow,-
They never can replace the bud our early fondness nursed;
They may be lovely and beloved, but not, like thee, the First!

The First! How many a memory bright that one sweet word can bring
Of hopes that blossom'd, droop'd, and died in life's delightful spring;
Of fervid feelings pass'd away-those early seeds of bliss
That germinate in hearts unsear'd by such a world as this!

My sweet one, my sweet one, my fairest and my first!

When I think of what thou might'st have been, my heart is like to burst;
But gleams of gladness through my gloom their soothing radiance dart,
And my sighs are hush'd, my tears are dried, when I turn to what thou art!

Pure as the snow-flake ere it falls and takes the stain of earth,
With not a taint of mortal life except thy mortal birth,

God bade thee early taste the spring for which so many thirst,
And bliss, eternal bliss is thine, my Fairest and my First!

TO A CHILD BLOWING BUBBLES.

Thrice happy babe! what radiant dreams are thine,
As thus thou bidd'st thine air-born bubbles soar;-
Who would not Wisdom's choicest gifts resign
To be, like thee, a careless child once more?

To share thy simple sports and sinless glee;
Thy breathless wonder, thy unfeign'd delight,
As, one by one, those sun-touch'd glories flee,
In swift succession, from thy straining sight;—

To feel a power within himself to make,

Like thee, a rainbow wheresoe'er he goes;
To dream of sunshine, and, like thee, to wake
To brighter visions, from his charm'd repose ;-

Who would not give his all of worldly lore,

The hard-earn'd fruits of many a toil and care,-
Might he but thus the faded past restore,

Thy guileless thoughts and blissful ignorance share!

Yet life hath bubbles, too, that soothe awhile

The sterner dreams of man's maturer years;
Love, Friendship, Fortune, Fame by turns beguile,
But melt 'neath Truth's Ithuriel touch to tears.

Thrice happy child! a brighter lot is thine;
What new illusion e'er can match the first?
We mourn to see each cherish'd hope decline;
Thy mirth is loudest when thy bubbles burst.

MY OWN FIRESIDE.

"It is a mystic circle, that surrounds Comforts and virtues never known beyond Its hallow'd limit."

Let others seek for empty joys

SOUTHEY.

At ball or concert, rout or play; Whilst, far from Fashion's idle noise, Her gilded domes and trappings gay, I wile the wintry eve away,

'Twixt book and lute the hours divide;
And marvel how I e'er could stray
From thee-my own fireside!

My own fireside! Those simple words
Can bid the sweetest dreams arise,
Awaken feeling's tenderest chords,

And fill with tears of joy mine eyes.
What is there my wild heart can prize,
That doth not in thy sphere abide;
Haunt of my home-bred sympathies,
My own-my own fireside!

A gentle form is near me now;

A small white hand is clasp'd in mine;
I gaze upon her placid brow,

And ask, what joys can equal thine?
A babe, whose beauties half divine,
In sleep his mother's eyes doth hide;
Where may Love seek a fitter shrine
Than thou, my own fireside!

My refuge ever from the storm

Of this world's passion, strife, and care;
Though thunder-clouds the skies deform,
Their fury cannot reach me there:
There all is cheerful, calm, and fair:
Wrath, Envy, Malice, Strife, or Pride
Hath never made its hated lair
By thee-my own fireside!

Shrine of my household deities!

Bright scene of home's unsullied joys;

To thee my burden'd spirit flies

When Fortune frowns, or Care annoys!

Thine is the bliss that never cloys;

The smile whose truth has oft been tried;—

What, then, are this world's tinsel toys
To thee-my own fireside!

Oh, may the yearnings, fond and sweet,
That bid my thoughts be all of thee,
Thus ever guide my wandering feet
To thy heart-soothing sanctuary!
Whate'er my future years may be,
Let joy or grief my fate betide,
Be still an Eden bright to me,
My own-my own fireside!

THE GRAY HAIR.

Come, let me pluck that silver hair
Which mid thy clustering curls I see;
The withering type of Time or Care
Hath nothing, sure, to do with thee.
Years have not yet impair'd the grace

That charm'd me once, that chains me now; And Envy's self-love cannot trace

One wrinkle on thy placid brow.

Thy features have not lost the bloom

That brighten'd them when first we met: No; rays of softest light illume

Their unambitious beauty yet.

And if the passing clouds of Care

Have cast their shadows o'er thy face,
They have but left, triumphant, there
A holier charm-more witching grace.
And if thy voice hath sunk a tone,

And sounds more sadly than of yore,
It hath a sweetness all its own,

Methinks I never mark'd before.

Thus young, and fair, and happy, too,-
If bliss indeed may here be won,

In spite of all that care can do,

In spite of all that Time hath done;

Is yon white hair a boon of love,

To thee in mildest mercy given;

A sign, a token from above,

To lead thy thoughts from earth to heaven?

To speak to thee of life's decay;

Of beauty, hastening to the tomb; Of hopes, that cannot fade away;

Of joys, that never lose their bloom?

Or springs the thread of timeless snow,

With those dark, glossy locks entwined, Mid Youth's and Beauty's morning glow, To emblem thy maturer mind?

It does, it does;-then let it stay,

Even Wisdom's self were welcome now: Who'd wish her soberer tints away,

When thus they beam from Beauty's brow!

MRS. JAMESON.

No work pretending to give an account of the prominent English authors of the nineteenth century would be complete without the name of this charming and instructive writer.' Accident, she says, made her an author, and she thus expounds some of her aims in continuing to write: "It is not by exposing folly and scorning fools that we make other people wiser or ourselves happier. But to soften the heart by images and examples of the kindly and generous affectionsto show how the human soul is disciplined and perfected by suffering-to prove how much of possible good may exist in things evil and perverted-how much hope there is for those who despair-how much comfort for those whom a heartless world has taught to contemn both others and themselves, and to put barriers to the hard, cold, selfish, mocking, and levelling spirit of the day."

This high and noble aim she has successfully carried out in many of her works, but in none more than in that by which she is best known, "Characteristics of Women, Moral, Poetical, and Historical." These are designed to illustrate the Female Characters of Shakspeare, and never did commentator catch more perfectly the spirit of an author, or convey to the reader a more exact or a more vivid impression of his genius and scope. It is more than interesting; it is bewitching; for, take it up where you will, you will not find it easy to lay it down. "The secret of this excellence of Mrs. Jameson's book we take to be the fact that it is a woman, a very woman, who undertakes the task-none so well able as those to approve or condemn, as one who, being of a like nature, has in herself had the same feelings excited in her own heart during her life-who, as lover, wife, mother, and friend, has in turn acted all these parts in real history, and has not gone to other commentators for her criticism." 2

In her "Essays," Mrs. Jameson has an admirable chapter on our own countryman, Washington Allston, whose peculiar genius and power she well appreciates; for, an artist herself, she can enter into an artist's hopes and fears, his disappointments and his triumphs. In her chapter, in the same book, entitled, "Woman's Mission and Woman's Position," she takes a plain, practical common-sense view of that hackneyed theme on which so much nonsense has been spoken and written. In short, in most of her works, she aims to be practical-"to bring the flowers of art and genius to glorify our common household lives, and render them more sweet by the beatification."

PORTIA.

Portia is endued with her own share of those delightful qualities which Shakspeare has lavished on many of his female characters;

'I may add prolific, too, for her mine of intellectual wealth seems to be inexhaustible. The following are the chief works she has hitherto published: "Diary of an Ennuyée;" "Characteristics of Women;" "Memoirs and Essays illustrative of Art, Literature, and Social Morals" "Memoirs of Female Sovereigns:"Loves of the Poets;" "Hand-book to Public Picture Galleries in and near London" "History of the early Italian Painters;" "Social Life in Germany;" "Poetry of Sacred and Legendary Art;" "Companion to Private Picture Galleries."

2 Powell's "Living Authors of England."