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Creator, almost all of whose visible works are adapted for the promotiion of other and secondary purposes, after the first more ostensible object has been attained.' pp. 200-209.

Many, very many passages of the same admirable character are scattered through the volume. We need not say, therefore, we most cordially recommend the work to general perusal.

Art. VII. Maternal Sketches; with other Poems. By Eliza Rutherfoord. Sm. 8vo. pp. 176. Price 7s. London, 1832.

THIS is a delightful volume of melodious verse poured from

the well-spring of the heart's best affections. The title is is not very well chosen. The theme of the principal poem is Maternal Affection, or, in good Saxon English, Mothers' Love, -from its first new and delightful impulse, at the birth of her first-born, to its latest energies as the mainspring of the tenderest and noblest efforts of self-denying watchfulness and exertion. The subject is as old, almost, as the creation, and as familiar as the song of birds, or the unchanged, yet ever-changing phenomena of nature; but who is ever tired of gazing on the reflection of earth and heaven in a clear and living current? No object could have been more gracefully chosen by a female writer; and only a woman could have treated it with the feminine delicacy and strong and pure feeling which characterize this chaste production. The charm of the poem is, that it has every appearance of having been dictated, not by the ambition of writing poetry as poetry, but by the wish to embody in that form, sentiments and emotions of which the melodious expression is poetry. In many volumes of the kind, we find a long and laboured poem apparently written on purpose to give importance to the volume, the whole charm and merit of which are found in the minor pieces, that have been dictated by natural feeling. In this volume, on the contrary, the shorter poems are very inferior in interest, as well as in point of versification, to the leading poem; a strong internal proof that the Writer has drawn her inspiration from nature and the subject, not from any artificial source. But our readers will judge for themselves. Here is a lovely picture:

Rich in the basket's beautiful array,
Thy baby robes the choicest art display;
The sempstress there has plied her task for thee,
In all the needle's light embroidery:

Here the rich flower, and there the twining stem,
The snowy roses, and the lace-worked hem:

The toilet ornament, with motto drest,
Bears the fond wish in flowery verse exprest

And kind congratulations, far and near,
With thy young charms salute her favoured ear.
Sweet are the pageants of thy morning hour,
Child of affcetion-snow-drop of the bower!
Soft are the balmy gales on thee that play-
Pure as the breath of summer's calmest day.

Yet dearer interests shall pervade her breast,
New beauties win her, and new charms arrest:
The breath of innocence-the murmuring voice,
That seems with new-born transport to rejoice,—
To ask communion, pleasure to impart,
And waken echo in that tender heart.

The grateful offices of love are paid
By her own hand; in careless beauty laid
Upon her lap, from dress and bondage free,
He pours his first wild song to liberty;

Moves the young limbs, with vigour newly found,
And tries at length the eloquence of sound;
Fixes his eye, and asks the answering tone,
Now soft, now loud, in measure all his own.

Then shall her soothing numbers, floating near
His dreamy pillow, lull his slumbering ear,
While, in the beauty of serene repose,
On her loved form his drooping eyelids close.

See!-at the magic of a sound, that eye
Darts all its force of love and ecstasy,—
Distinctions none, save that soft voice alone
That vibrates to the heart its silver tone.
Each varying form and colour on that sight
Unnoticed blends, in harmony of light;
Save this, all other fairer forms above,
Robed in its own celestial garb of love.

'Look at the gilded plaything, brought to lure
And tempts him from a spot he deems secure;
He turns a moment with delighted eye,
And eager hand, its feeble force to try;
Then back again he starts, with quick alarms,
And slights the glittering bauble's idle charms.

'Hark to that tender melody of tone,
When his young accents imitate her own!
No harmony can equal bliss impart

To that soft echo in his mother's heart;

And still she hears, with every fresh surprise, Some new succession of sweet sounds arise :First the lov'd name, and then the fond farewell, Till he has learned each rising wish to tell.

See! when his tender frame in sickness fades,
And fever parches, and disease invades,
Her eye, unclosed, untired, its vigil keeps,
She rocks his cradle-listens while he sleeps,
Cheers when he wakes, with love's creative wiles,
Paid by his fond caress and tearful smiles.

The first faint step he makes in life's rude way,
Her eye his polar star-her hand his stay,—
Lured by that beck'ning hand and gentle tone,
He feels his safety in her look alone.

Poor child of Royalty!-Thy fate I mourn,
If from this friend and loved protectress borne,
Yon infant, on the harvest sheaf at rest,
Watched by the faithful dog, is far more blest;
For his poor mother's tender thought may shed
A glance protecting o'er his russet bed,

While, soothed by Nature's breath, he lies at ease,

Sheltered from harm, and nurtured by the breeze.' PP. 3-8.

With great delicacy and pathos, a transition is made to the feelings of one who has been betrayed from the path of virtue.

That mournful stigma, sheds on him its stain,

And the devotedness of Love is vain.

Oh! might she shield him! but it cannot be,
What art can shun that fatal obloquy?
In lonely glades, with him, with him alone,
She would retire, unfriended and unknown;
But there the sorrow still to be renewed,
The one deep source of grief, that must intrude,
Even at the artless mention of her name,
To paint his youthful cheek with burning shame.
Where is the parent that should train his youth,
Sanction her precepts, stamp her words with truth?
Where is the counsellor, the friend, the guide,
Who o'er his youthful conduct should preside?
Ah! hush the bitter thought!-forbear, forbear
To touch the hidden spring of anguish there.

'Oh! widowhood most dreadful! ne'er can she
Portray departed worth to infancy,

Locked in the silent chambers of her breast,
Her sorrows with their bitter secret rest.
Poor penitent! thy tears and prayers avail

But little, Rumour circulates the tale,

And these sad wanderings from the path of truth,

Fling a cold mildew o'er the flower of youth.' pp. 10, 11.

The poem is desultory, and we shall not detail the argument of each canto. Considerable skill is shewn in varying the didactic parts by historical illustrations and moral contrasts. In portraying

' maternal anticipations,' there is a happy allusion to the dream which Dante's mother had of the greatness of her unborn son, and to the mournful parting between Tasso and his mother, on his being called to Rome by his father for the purpose of education. The penitent apostrophe to his illustrious mother, made by Gustavus III., in his last moments, is next introduced; and then the following beautiful historic allusion.

So, when the deeds of Essex dared the law,
Nor e'en that royal pledge could mercy draw,
In the lone cell, his mother's hymns of love
O'er memory came, like music from above.

Then, those pure counsels, which had long been hushed,
While fortune flattered, and ambition flushed,

Rose unsubdued by time, and breathed their balm
In that last conflict, to support and calm.

Time's heavy wave had o'er his bosom rolled,

But left in memory's sands those grains of gold.'

Among the other historic anecdotes, the Roman Mother is not forgotten. After the Campanian dame' had displayed her costly treasures, she in return

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begged to see

Cornelia's precious store of jewellery.

Just then her children from their school arrive,
Adorned with all the charms that youth can give ;
Bounding, they seek that tender mother's care,
Health on their cheeks, and freedom in their air.
Exulting tenderness reveals her joys;

And, leading in each hand her youthful boys,
"Behold!" she says, "my hoarded, choicest store:
These are my jewels, and I ask no more."

Imperial Rome! when thy proud eagle flew
O'er half the world, and claimed its tribute due—
Grasping the bolted thunder as it rose,

To hurl destruction on its hapless foes;

When thou wast mightiest, and stood'st forth alone,
In beauty, art, and arms, no rival known;
Thy breath the breath of eloquence, thine eye
The soul's bright awful electricity,

Whose ray consumed, ere the hot bolt of war
Shot its red vengeance from the flaming car:
Proportion's finest mould, thy noble form-
Thy arm a haven, and thy wrath a storm:
When from thy hills the great, the mighty came,
And nations felt a magic in thy name:
Then were thy sons to matron skill consigned,
And love maternal formed the youthful mind.
This this alone!- bade patriotism warm,
And glory captivate, and honour charm,

VOL. VIII.-N.S.

H H

Inspired their breasts with love of liberty,
Taught them their noble birthright-to be free.
What were the Roman masks or shows to her?
What the Pantheon's charm, the city's stir?
The proud cabals of party, or the gay
And festive scenes on Roman holiday?
See! by the Appian way, where valour sleeps,
And patriot pride the fond memorial keeps,
She wanders, with her youthful sons, to read
High names, enrolled for many a valiant deed.
The infant eye (within whose tender light
Played sportive thought) emits a ray more bright,
And kindling hopes, and brilliant visions glow,
Shading with their deep thought the brow of snow.
She gives the glittering bulla its fond charm
Of sacred power to shelter him from harm;
And when the toga's folds his form invest,
And manhood's hopes swell ardent in his breast,
Then she is near, those breathings to inspire,
And rule or quell ambition's rising fire.
'Such was the Roman mother! So with flowers
She hung life's vestibule, and gave the powers
Of his young mind their energy and scope-
Rome, and her grandeur, bounding every hope.
But higher thoughts inspire the Christian's breast,
With immortality's bright prospect blest;
She asks no splendours to adorn his way
That mock his grasp, and glitter to betray.
The hopes she wakens mingle with the sky,
And light with heavenly ray his destiny;
Like the bright clouds that float on summer even,
Gilding the scenes of earth with tints of heaven,
Her voice his early orison shall teach,
And wake devotion with the lisp of speech;
That dawn is her's,-so transient and so fair
Ere the rude world may claim admission there,-
It is her own, and all that she may claim;
Yet shall it bear through life her sacred aim;
Heaven has itself conferred upon that love
A spell, a talisman, all power above.

With his young morning visions bright and fair
Her mem'ry stands, and nothing shall impair
Its sacred influence: life's mists may rise,

But cannot dim those tender sympathies.' pp. 79-83.

These specimens will sufficiently shew the general tenor and spirit of these Sketches'; and they will, better than any formal recommendation of ours, speak for the Author to the hearts of our readers. As we have spoken somewhat slightingly of the minor pieces, we must in justice give the following elegant

stanzas.

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