WOOD WALK AND HYMN. "Move along these shades In gentleness of heart--with gentle hand Touch--for there is a spirit in the woods." WORDSWORTH FATHER--CHILD. _Child._--There are the aspens with their silvery leaves Trembling, for ever trembling; though the lime And chestnut boughs, and these long arching sprays Of eglantine, hang still, as if the wood Were all one picture! _Father._--Hast thou heard, my boy, The peasant's legend of that quivering tree? _Child._--No, father; doth he say the fairies dance Amidst the branches? _Father._--Oh! a cause more deep, More solemn far, the rustic doth assign To the strange restlessness of those wan leaves! The cross, he deems, the blessed cross, whereon The meek Redeemer bow'd his head to death, Was framed of aspen wood; and since that hour, Through all its race the pale tree hath sent down A thrilling consciousness, a secret awe, Making them tremulous, when not a breeze Disturbs the airy thistle down, or shakes The light lines of the shining gossamer. An eminent critic in the _Edinburgh Review_ has spoken of the neatness and perfect finish which characterise female writers in general, and Mrs Hemans in particular. Now, these qualities imply a certain terseness and concentration of style, which is no more a peculiarity of all authoresses than of all authors, and which we should not pronounce to be peculiarly characteristic of Mrs Hemans' poetry. To us it often appears wanting in this very conciseness; we occasionally wish that some lines and verses were excluded--not because they are faulty in themselves, but because they weaken the effect, and detract from the vigour of the whole: we wish the verses, in short, were more closely packed together, so that the commencement and the close, which are generally both good, could be brought a little nearer to each other. It is not so much a redundancy of expression, as of images and illustrations, that we have sometimes to complain of in Mrs Hemans. She uses two of these where one would not only suffice, but do the work much better. There is a very pleasing little poem, called _The Wandering Wind_: we will quote--first, because it is thus pleasing; and, secondly, because we think it would have been rendered still more so had there been somewhat more of concentration and terseness in the style. The lines which we have printed in italics, and which contain the pith and marrow of the whole, would then have struck upon the ear with more distinctness and prominence. THE WANDERING WIND. The wind, the wandering wind Of the golden summer eves-- _Whence is the thrilling magic_ _Of its tones amongst the leaves?_ Oh! is it from the waters, Or from the long tall grass? Or is it from the hollow rocks Through which its breathings pass?