Or is it from the voices Of all in one combined, That it wins the tone of mastery? The wind, the wandering wind! No, no! the strange, sweet accents That with it come and go, They are not from the osiers, Nor the fir trees whispering low. They are not of the waters, Nor of the cavern'd hill, _'Tis the human love within us_ _that gives the power to thrill._ They touch the links of memory Around our spirits twined, _And we start, and weep, and tremble,_ _To the wind, the wandering wind!_ The verses beginning "I dream of all things free" might also be cited as an instance of this tendency to over-amplify--a tendency which seems the result of a great affluence of poetical imagery. This would be a more powerful poem merely by being made shorter. We wait too long, and the imagination roves too far, before we arrive at the concluding lines, which contain all the point and significance of the piece:-- "My heart _in chains_ is bleeding, And I dream of all things free." Of the measures and the melody of a lyrical poet something is expected to be said. But what we feel we have chiefly to thank Mrs Hemans for here is, that, in the search after novelty and variety of metre, she has made so few experiments upon our ear, and that she has not disdained to write with correctness and regularity. She has not apparently laboured after novelties of this kind, but has adopted that verse into which her thoughts spontaneously ran. An author who does this is not very likely to select a rhythm, or measure, which is incongruous with the subject-matter of his poem; nor, do we think, could many instances of such a fault be detected in Mrs Hemans. We will close our extracts with a strain that fairly exemplifies the serene and lucid current of sentiment, and the genuine natural pathos, of our poetess. It is thus she makes the Hebrew mother sing to her first-born, whom she has devoted to the Lord. Alas! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me; The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes; And now fond thoughts arise, And silver cords again to earth have won me, And like a vine thou claspest my full heart-- How shall I hence depart? How the lone paths retrace where thou wert playing So late along the mountains at my side? And I, in joyous pride, By every place of flowers my course delaying, Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair Beholding thee so fair! And oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted, Will it not seem as if the sunny day Turn'd from its door away! While through its chambers wandering, weary-hearted, I languish for thy voice, which past me still Went like a singing rill?