The following poetical epistle exhibits that mixture of pensiveness and playfulness which was evidently constitutional in the Writer, and at the same time shews that she was not unconscious of a bias to the sombre.

" TO MRS. L.

Why is it that my friend and I
Look forth on life so variously?
She, on the present, future, past,
A sanguine smile is prone to cast:
I weep o'er scenes for ever fled,
Th' impending future wait with dread,
And see the present moment fly,
With languid, listless apathy.

'Tis not that when our course was plann'd,
'Twas done with such a partial hand

As strewed, for long, succeeding years,
Thy path with flowers, and mine with tears.
For grief has aimed a shaft at thee,
And joy in turn has glanced at me.
Ee'n should the self-same path be ours,
Set with alternate weeds and flowers,
You, from its entrance to its close,
Would point at these, and I at those.
In gathering clouds that o'er us form,
You greet a shade, 1 bode a storm-
Still choosing to expect the worst,
Since clouds are clouds, and often burst.
Yet soon, you say, they pass, and Oh!
How cheering is the faithful bow!
Thus argues each; and all the while
I weep; and you persist to smile.

6

If in the depth of nature's laws
Philosophy should seek the cause,
Perhaps the whole might be descried
In movements of the crimson tide;
As brisk or fainting pulses shew
Its rapid, or its tardy flow.
Howe'er that be, it might be wise
To form a mutual compromise-
Or friendly firm, combining so,

Hope, Fear, Indifference, Care, and Co.
Then would concessions fair and true
Encourage me, attemper you.
You would Hope's guile allow, and I
That Fear exceeds reality.
You, that all gladness shews alloy;
And I, that grief is dash'd with joy.

Care too distrustful, I confess;
And you a treacherous sanguineness.
When thus opposed extremes unite,
The aggregate will just be right:
The sanguine smile is check'd by fear,
And hope shall glitter through a tear.'

The longest and most earnest effort at poetical composition among the Remains, is a fragment which, by its strong, nervous versification and dark colouring, will inevitably remind the reader of Crabbe. The history of the poem is this. The wild and romantic scenery of the northern coast of Devonshire had 'filled Jane's imagination,'—and one spot in particular was her favourite walk, on which she fixed as the scene of a history which floated in her mind for three or four years; but no more than what is now published was ever committed to paper.'

''Mid scatter'd rocks, on Devon's northern sea,
Lies a small hamlet, and its name is Lea:

A drear, lone place, where few stone huts below
Seem to the spot spontaneously to grow;
So rude, that to the eye they intermix

With rock and weed :-there are but five or six.
A rapid stream that dashes from the hill,
Turns the rude wheel-work of a noisy mill;
And falling there, where nought its fury bars,
Flies from the wheel in thousand glittering stars,
Producing life, and sound, and movement here,
Where all beside is silent, still, and drear.
Like wit ill-timed, this playful pageant mocks
The gloomy aspect of the sea and rocks.

Well he explor❜d each smoothly hollow'd cave,
The work of ages, with th' incessant wave.
Each rocky fragment, scatter'd wide to view,
Like an old friend familiarly he knew.
On sunny days he loved for hours to lie

On some huge mass; and there with patient eye,
The curious work of Nature's hand to trace,—
A work commenc'd when Time began his race,
And not yet finish'd: ages, as they rise,
Aid the slow process, and enrich the dyes.
Art's finest pencil could but rudely mock
The rich grey mosses broider'd on a rock.
And those gray watery grots he would explore,-
Small excavations on a rocky shore,
That seem like fairy baths, or mimic wells,
Richly emboss'd with choicest weed and shells;.

As if her trinkets Nature chose to hide

Where nought invaded but the flowing tide.'

One regrets that Miss Taylor did not more frequently employ her delicate pencil in such sketches as this. The lines serve to introduce the imaginary character of whose auto-biographical narrative the poem was designed to consist,-the misanthropist who has chosen this gloomy spot as his congenial dwelling, where one servant forms his whole establishment.

Peggy, his sole domestic, slowly grew

To be in fact his sole companion too.

When first she came, she never thought-nor he-
With her odd master she could make so free

She was not pert:-he wish'd not to confer
With any living-doubtless not with her.
But man is social, e'en against his will;
And woman kind, whatever rank she fill.
Her master came a lonely stranger here,
Feeble, dejected, friendless-'twould appear.
She pitied; woman does; nor pitied less
For knowing not the cause of his distress.
She was not young, and had her troubles known,
So that she felt his sorrows with her own,
And soon resolved to labour, all she could,
To cheer his spirits and to do him good.

Though few and mean th' attainments she could boast,
Peggy had pass'd her life upon the coast;

And she could thoughts and sentiments disclose,
Such as the inland peasant rarely knows.
On squally nights, or when it blew a gale,
Long she would stand, recounting tale on tale
Of wreck or danger, or of rescue bold
That she had witness'd, or her kindred told,
Bringing each long-lost circumstance to mind:
And genuine feeling taught her where to find
Terms more expressive, though of vulgar use,
Than hours of patient study will produce.
Her native eloquence would place in view
The very scene, and all its terrors too.
Meantime, t' excuse her stay, she us'd to stand,
The tidy hearth still trimming, brush in hand;
Till he, with kind, though not familiar air,
Would interrupt with "Peggy take a chair."
A chair she took ;-less easy when she had';
But soon resum'd her tale, and both were glad.
Thus she became, at length, a parlour guest;
And he was happier, though 'twas ne'er confess'd.
Rocks, seas, and hills were here his friends by choice;
But there is music in the human voice.

'So pass'd their evenings oft; but now and then,
As the mood seiz'd him, he would take a pen,
Wherewith, though slowly, into form was cast
A brief, unfinish'd record of the past.
Whene'er for this her master gave the word,
His faithful Peggy neither spoke nor stirr'd.
She took her knitting-chose a distant seat,
And there she sat so still, and look'd so neat,
'Twas quite a picture;-there was e'en a grace
In the trim border round her placid face.

When Philip wrote, he never seem'd so well,
Was startled even if a cinder fell,
And quickly worried;-Peggy saw it all,
And felt the shock herself, if one did fall.
Of knowledge, she had little in her head;
But a nice feeling often serves instead ;
And she had more than many better bred.

But now he felt, like men of greater note,
The harmless wish of reading what he wrote;
Not to the world ;-no, that he could not bear;
But here sat candid Peggy, in her chair:
And so it was, that he whose inward woe
Was much too sacred for mankind to know,
He-so refined, mysterious, and so proud-
To a poor servant read his life aloud.

How weak is man, amused with things like these!
Or else, how vain are writers! which you please.
• All Peggy heard, she deem'd exceeding good,
But chiefly prais'd the parts she understood.
At these, by turns, she used to smile or sigh,
And, with full credit, pass'd the other by:
While he, like men and wits of modern days,
Felt inly flatter'd by her humble praise.
Yet, vigour fail'd t' accomplish the design;
And 'twas but seldom he would add a line.
But when he died-some years ago, at Lea,
Old Peggy sent the manuscript to me.'

The narrative itself is a truly affecting picture of a lad with mind and manners above his fortunes, timid, bashful, and oppressed. It is only too brief. We should have been delighted to see how his character would have been developed. One of the latest, if not the last poetical effusion, and, in our opinion, one of the most touching and beautiful poems in the volume, though marked by perfect simplicity, and having all the character of a private record of feeling, is the following hymn, with which we close our extracts.

"THE THINGS THAT ARE UNSEEN ARE ETERNAL.'

THERE is a state unknown, unseen,
Where parted souls must be ;
And but a step may be between
That world of souls and me.

• The friend I loved has thither fled,
With whom I sojourned here:
I see no sight-I hear no tread ;
But may she not be near?

I see no light-I hear no sound,
When midnight shades are spread;
Yet angels pitch their tents around,
And guard my quiet bed.

'Jesus was rapt from mortal gaze,
And clouds conveyed him hence ;
Enthron'd amid the sapphire blaze,
Beyond our feeble sense.-

'Yet say not-who shall mount on high,
To bring him from above?
For lo! the Lord is always nigh

The children of his love.

The Saviour whom I long have sought,
And would, but cannot see-
And is he here? O wondrous thought!
And will he dwell with me?

• I ask not with my mortal eye
To view the vision bright;
I dare not see Thee, lest I die;
Yet Lord, restore my sight!

'Give me to see Thee, and to feel-
The mental vision clear:
The things unseen reveal! reveal!
And let me know them near.
'I seek not fancy's glittering height,
That charmed my ardent youth;
But in thy light would see the light,
And learn thy perfect truth,
The gathering clouds of sense disp
That wrapt my soul around;
In heavenly places make me dwell,
While treading earthly ground.
'Illume this shadowy soul of mine,
That still in darkness lies;
O let the light in darkness shine,
And bid the day-star rise!