Though many of the productions of the gifted poetess will soon be forgotten, there is no doubt that some will live. The subjects are those which gain an admittance to the hearts of all classes. We have already given in full that beautiful poem "The Better Land." There is no danger of "Casabianca" passing into oblivion. Children delight to commit it to memory, and are all the better for the lesson of devotion to duty they have learnt. "Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood, A proud, though childlike form. The flames rolled on--he would not go Without his father's word; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard." Mrs. Hemans was at her best in treating of such matters as those dealt with in "The Homes of England" and "The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers." Any one is to be pitied who can read without admiration these lines from the former:-- "The merry homes of England! Around their hearths by night What gladsome looks of household love Meet in the ruddy light! There woman's voice flows forth in song, Or childhood's tale is told, Or lips move tunefully along Some glorious page of old. The blessed homes of England! How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from Sabbath hours! Solemn, yet sweet, the church bell's chime Floats through their woods at morn; All other sounds in that still time Of breeze and leaf are born." There is little danger of "The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers" being forgotten. How well the poetess indicated the, motive which led them from their native country to the unknown land!-- "What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? They sought a faith's pure shrine! Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod! They have left unstained what there they found-- Freedom to worship God!" As an example of Mrs. Hemans' treatment of sacred subjects, we may quote the concluding verses of "Christ's Agony in the Garden":-- "He knew them all--the doubt, the strife, The faint perplexing dread, The mists that hang o'er parting life, All darkened round His head; And the Deliverer knelt to pray, Yet passed it not, that cup, away. It passed not--though the stormy wave Had sunk beneath His tread; It passed not--though to Him the grave Had yielded up its dead. But there was sent Him from on high A gift of strength for man to die. And was _His_ mortal hour beset With anguish and dismay?-- How may _we_ meet our conflict yet, In the dark, narrow way? How, but through Him, that path who trod? Save, or we perish, Son of God!"