“In many a village churchyard’s simple grave, Where all unmarked the cypress branches wave; In many a vault, where Death could only claim The brief inscription of a woman’s name; Of different ranks, and different degrees, From daily labor to a life of ease, (_From the rich wife, who through the weary day_ _Wept in her jewels_, grief’s unceasing prey, To the poor soul who trudg’d o’er marsh and moor, And with her baby begg’d from door to door,—) Lie hearts which, ere they found that last release, Had lost all memory of the blessing, “Peace;” Hearts, whose long struggle through unpitied years, None saw but Him who marks the mourner’s tears; _The obscurely noble!_ who evaded not The woe which he had will’d should be their lot, But nerved themselves to bear!” “The Dream,” as a whole, is the finest piece in the volume before us. It abounds with glorious passages, of which we can only give two more examples—the one, impassioned, nervous, and stirring as a trumpet—the other sweet, and low, and musical as the rustle of an angel’s wing. Few authors can boast such a varied power. “Heaven give thee poverty, disease, or death, Each varied ill that waits on human breath, Rather than bid thee linger out thy life, In the long toil of such unnatural strife. To wander through the world unreconciled, Heart-weary as a spirit-broken child, _And think it were an hour of bliss like heaven,_ _If thou couldst_ DIE—_forgiving and forgiven_,— Or with a feverish hope of anguish born, (Nerving thy mind to feel indignant scorn Of all the cruel foes that twixt ye stand, Holding thy heart-strings with a reckless hand,) Steal to his presence, now unseen so long, And claim _his_ mercy who hath dealt the wrong! Into the aching depths of thy poor heart, Dive, as it were, even to the roots of pain, And wrench up thoughts that tear thy soul apart, And burn like fire through thy bewildered brain. Clothe them in passionate words of wild appeal, To teach thy fellow creatures how to feel,— Pray, weep, exhaust thyself in maddening tears,— Recall the hopes, the influences of years,— Kneel, dash thyself upon the senseless ground, Writhe as the worm writhes with dividing wound,— Invoke the Heaven that knows thy sorrow’s truth, By all the softening memories of youth— By every hope that cheered thine early day— By every tear that washes wrath away— By every old remembrance long gone by— By every pang that makes thee yearn to die; And learn at length how deep and stern a blow Man’s hand can strike, and yet no pity show!” What force! what passion! Never has Mrs. Hemans written thus,—few indeed have done so except Byron. We must pass “The Dream” with a single other quotation. It is on the evening hour, and is sweet as a moonlit landscape, or a child’s dream of heaven.