Yet scorn thou not, for this, the true And steadfast love of years; The kindly, that from childhood grew, The faithful to thy tears! If there be one that o'er the dead Hath in thy grief borne part, And watched through sickness by thy bed-- Call _his_ a kindred heart! But for those bonds all perfect made, Wherein bright spirits blend; Like sister-flowers of one sweet shade, With the same breeze that bend; For that full bliss of thought allied, Never to mortals given-- Oh! lay thy lonely dreams aside, Or lift them unto heaven. We follow no further the events of her biography. We have here all that reflects a light upon the poems themselves. That Welsh life among the mountains--the little girl with her Shakspeare in the apple-tree--that beauty of fifteen, full of poetry and enthusiasm and love--marriage--disappointment--and the living afterwards, with her children round her, in a condition worse than widowhood;--here is all the comment that her biography affords on her sweet and melancholy verse. And how vividly the verse reflects the life! How redolent of nature is her poetry! how true her pictures of mountain, and forest, and river, and sky! It requires that the reader should have been himself a long and accurate observer of rural scenes, to follow her imagination, and feel the truth of her rapid and unpretending descriptions. It is singular how, without the least apparent effort, all the persons she brings before us are immediately localised on the green earth--trees wave around them, flowers spring at their feet, as if this were quite natural and unavoidable. How sweet a part does the quiet charm of nature take in the piece called THE VOICE OF HOME TO THE PRODIGAL. Oh! when wilt thou return To thy spirit's early loves? To the freshness of the morn, To the stillness of the groves? The summer birds are calling The household porch around, And the merry waters falling With sweet laughter in their sound. And a thousand bright-veined flowers, From their banks of moss and fern, Breathe of the sunny hours-- But when wilt thou return? Oh! thou hast wandered long From thy home without a guide; And thy native woodland song In thine altered heart hath died. Thou hast flung the wealth away, And the glory of thy spring; And to thee the leaves' light play Is a long-forgotten thing. There is something very touching in the simplicity of these pleasures, contrasted with what imagination immediately suggests of the career and the tastes of the prodigal.