of their wedded existence, with their harvest labors and their young children about them. Then follows the progress of events. The farmer's wife dies; his short summer of domestic happiness, if not totally destroyed, is darkened. The twilight of an eclipsed spirit hovers over it; but his children grow up, and the development of their individual character is traced with a master hand. Troubles, arising out of very naturally depicted causes, fall on that household. Deaths and separations follow; the farmer, and part of his family emigrate to a new country. Besides the life of the farmer, we have glimpses of another life, which is connected with it, and exerts the most important influences on it, that of his landlord. We are hence led to contemplate the working of systems and principles which involve the fortunes of the mass of the agricultural population, and the moral being and prosperity of the nation at large. We can testify from our own experience to the entire truthfulness of all these sketches, and honor the heart and mind, the firmness and discretion with which they have been made. They have carried us away into that peculiar walk of life with which the poem deals-that of the wealthy and cultivated farms of the north of England, in which, in prosperous times, and under the reign of a past simplicity, perhaps more real happiness has been experienced than in any other. Such peace, and pure-hearted comfort were there; such sweet and plentiful abodes; such sense and intelligence; such a bond of affection, in a whole household; such enjoyment of kind and cordial friends; of books, and of the fresh pleasures of nature. The Society of Friends, to which the author then belonged, held in those northern counties, and especially in Yorkshire, many such rural paradises of peace, friendship, and affection, which would have justified the most glowing of her present descriptions. But we must give a more detailed view of the poetry of the work. The seasons and the charms of nature are entwined, here and there, with the narrative, in a manner that brings them all before us in their strength and sweetness. The volume opens with a delightful spring morning in which the heart of the fair writer feels and diffuses all its happiness.

"Tis early dawn, and morning's welcome ray
Gilds the blue mountains, rising far away.

From out the bosom of a mimic sea,

Where the white vapours float along the lea;

Till the proud sun, exulting in his might,

Enrobes the earth in universal light.

'Tis spring's bright morn-and oh! what tongue can tell

The mingled melodies that mount and swell,

And float upon the flowery scented gale,

Wakening sweet echoes through the verdant vale

Harmonious voices-mellow toned and shrill,
Liquid, and murmuring, and almost still,
So small the fountain, and so pure the stream
From whence it flows, like music in a dream.
Yet, not the feeblest note of forest bird,
E'en by the brink of woodland. waters heard,
Nor loudest clarion that salutes the morn,
But hath some note of gladness still upborne.
A hymn of gratitude for life and light,
To the clear heavens fresh opening on the sight.
"Tis spring's sweet morn; and let our poets say
Whate'er they list of that cerulean day,
That rises o'er Italia's classic shore,
My native land for me! I ask no more.
My native land, clad in her robe of flowers,
Her daisied meadows, and her woodbine bowers;
Her lilacs gay, her bright laburnums, seen
Like fringe of gold beneath a mantle green;
Her streams that wander through the shady grove,
With cadence gentle as the voice of love;
Her patient herds that slumber on the lea,
Her gales that waft the honey-laden bee,
Her blooming orchards girt around with may,

That falls like snow, when from the scented spray
The song-bird flutters on his joyous wing,
To soar away to the blue skies, and sing;
Her pastures with the yellow cowslip rife,
And sportive lambs, in wantonness of life,
Wildly careering o'er the grassy downs,

Where furze, or broom, the goal of triumph crowns ;
Her verdant hills beyond its village spire,
And many a heath-clad mountain rising higher,
Around whose base the circling river winds,
Or through the vale its path of beauty finds.
Such are thy pictures, and I love to dwell
On scenes so long remembered, and so well—
Scenes that I gazed on fondly from my birth,
That made thee then the loveliest spot of earth.
And such thou art, beloved land, to me,

And ever wilt be--come what may to thee.

The farmer's home is accurately described from what was the author's home in childhood, and contained hearts as happy as peace and virtue and mutual affection could make them.

Was there not one within that peaceful home

Who might have boasted, had the question come
To her fond heart-for she was proud to be

The creature of one soul's idolatry?

And such a soul, so manly and so clear,
So firm of purpose, upright, and sincere,

Untaught of schools, yet filled with noble aims,
And that high virtue, which all praise disclaims,
With patriot fire to emulate a Tell,

And but one weakness-that he loved too well.
Yet she he loved was worthy of his care,
So gentle and so true, so fond and fair,
So self-devoted, looking to the end

For the remoter good, and thus his friend.

To her the sweet return of morning light

Brought a new life, still fraught with new delight;
For she had one to love, and serve, and cheer,
Who paid her back in kindness as sincere ;

And both felt bound their earthly course to make
As smooth as might be for the other's sake.

And now with that sweet morn of spring they rose
To offer up to heaven their early vows;
With joyful spirits to kneel down and pray,
And bless the light that brought another day,
Laden with all things needful, all things good,
They only asked for deeper gratitude,

Love that was less of earth, hopes more on high,
And greater willingness to live or die.
For they were growing to that lovely scene
As if their very root of life had been
Within the earth's deep bosom planted there,
To live, and bloom for ever, fresh and fair.
They looked around them with a joy so pure,
And felt the blessings of each day so sure,
They were so fain to hope, so glad to trust,
They failed to think what might be, or what must-
Of dark or drear, calamitous or strange,

They knew no evil, and they feared no change.
Thus while that sun his radiant course pursued,
He found no hearts more filled with gratitude,
More free to own that mercy crowned their days,
To tune to thankfulness their songs of praise.
It was the spring-tide flow of life to them:
Might not some rock, some gale, that current stem?
Might not that tide with natural ebb fall back,
And leave behind a waste and sterile track?
Were they prepared, in sorrow's wintry hour,
To own, and bless the same benignant power?
When darkening clouds should overcast their sun,
To bow the head, and say, 'Thy will be done?'

The scenes of domestic happiness are sketched with such a pure home feeling, that we could linger amongst them very long;

but we must pass over resolutely their pleasant evening's reading of choice books,

Thomson, or Burns, or melancholy Gray,'

or the best of books, and give the following beautiful lines on evening prayer.

It is the holy hour of evening prayer―
Descend, thou peaceful Dove, in mercy there.
Lo! the poor suppliant his sorrow brings-
Descend, thou Dove, with healing on thy wings.
If weary-laden in a world of grief,

Behold he kneels! with tears he asks relief;
Fainting beneath the burden of the day,
He seeks the shadowy night to weep and pray.
If in the pomp of manly power he stand,
Asking a boon, yet seeking to command,—
Descend, thou Dove, his earth-born pride control,
Come, with the dews of evening, melt his soul.
If he hath aught against his brother,—come,
Come, heavenly Dove, and let one happy home
Receive them both, one bower of peace be theirs,—
Angel of mercy, listen to their prayers!

If he have wandered from the ways of truth,
Blighting the promise of his early youth,
Call back the prodigal, thou gentle Dove,
Teach him once more to trust a father's love!
But if his earthly home be all too fair,

Then, holy Dove, descend, yet spare! oh spare!
Let the dim shadow of thy hovering wings
Warn him, without the weight of grief that brings
A blight upon the blossom where it falls,
Deeper for all the bliss its touch recalls.
Warn him, but gently tell thy tale of tears,
Blast not his hopes, but yet awake his fears.
Listen! he prays thee to behold his heart;
Canst thou not purify the vital part
With less than torture-less than fiery trial?
Angel of mercy! then uplift thy phial,-
Pour down the burning flood, so let the end
Be glorious-thou the mourner's friend.'

We have been seduced, by the beauty of the poetry, to quote thus largely from the opening of the work-all these extracts being taken from the first book only-the poem consisting of twelve. We are conscious that we have not selected what would give the most complete idea of the power and skill of the writer, that can only be felt in pursuing the course of the story; and

were we to transcribe half of what we would wish to lay before the reader, our notice would extend to a very great length. We must therefore leave our readers to the pleasure of exploring the contents of the volume themselves, sure, as we are, that they will rise from it with increased admiration of the fair author's talents, and esteem for her sound and independent mind. The development of the incidents, and portraiture of the characters of the story, are equally admirable. The death of the farmer's wifehis grief-the growth and several characters of his childrentheir country pleasures and pursuits-the aunt who comes to supply the place of the lost mother-her notions of genteel lifethe pulling down of the old house, and building of the large new one-the visit of the landlord and his gay aristocratic party, and all the very natural incidents of that visit-the farmer's reverses of fortune the melancholy wet season-the worldly young clergyman-the deceiving young aristocrat-the invitation of the tenantry to the hall only to lay on fresh rent-the distresses which follow, flowing down from one class to another-the various attachments of the daughters, and their unhappiness, except that of the humblest of them, who marries an humble but thriving trades-man, and the final emigration of the family;-all these things are so full of actual human life, that they cannot be read without the deepest interest.

If ever country was an image of gold and silver, iron and clay, it is England at the present moment; and in this able narrative poem, we have many of the causes of our social distress clearly laid bare, and some moral and political truths of the most solemn moment impressed on our minds, while we are drawn on by the charms of the verse, and the interest of the relation. The farmer, and his son and daughters, whose hearts cleave to their native soil, and who, under a better social system, might have been happy, and happiness-diffusing members of a community with which they had so many sweet and natural ties, are now embarked for a foreign shore; and the last view we have of them is full of deep feeling, and a regret the more melancholy because it has been experienced by so many thousands of our departing countrymen.

Many and various were the minds that met

Upon that deck before the sun had set;
And varied still the groups that gathered there,
With every shade from sadness to despair.
But William Herbert sat apart from all;
Perchance to watch the billows swell and fall.
No; for his eye is stretched too far away,
And farther still his thoughts unbidden stray,
He sees again the cheerful hearth begin
Its smile of joy, as evening closes in;
The same dark covering-such there used to be