“_That_ hour, once sacred to God’s presence, still Keeps itself calmer from the touch of ill, The holiest hour of earth. _Then_ toil doth cease, Then from the yoke, the oxen find release— Then man rests, pausing from his many cares, _And the world teems with children’s sunset prayers!_ Then innocent things seek out their natural rest, The babe sinks slumbering on its mother’s breast, The birds beneath their leafy covering creep, Yea, even the flowers fold up their buds in sleep; And angels, floating by on radiant wings, Hear the low sounds the breeze of evening brings, Catch the sweet incense as it floats along, The infant’s prayer, the mother’s cradle-song, And bear the holy gifts to worlds afar, As things too sacred for this fallen star.” There is, in reading these poems, an abiding sense of the desolation that has fallen on the heart of the writer, a desolation which only adds to the mournful music of her lyre, like the approach of death, is fabled, to give music to the swan. We have studiously avoided, heretofore, touching upon this subject, as we would not, by awakening pity, blind the judgment of the public, but we cannot avoid the remark, that every page of this volume bears evidence that the heart of the authoress, like that of Rachel, will not be comforted. The arrow has entered deep into her soul. Like Mrs. Hemans, unfortunate in her domestic life—for the miscreant who would still believe her guilty is an insult to humanity—she “seeks, as the stricken deer, to weep in silence and loneliness.” Hers is a hard lot; deserted by the one who has sworn to love her, and maligned by the unfeeling world, she has not even the consolation of weeping with her children, and finding some relief in their caresses for her broken heart. Hear her once more—we have almost wept as we read—hear her, when gazing in the twilight at the pictures of her absent children. “Where are ye? Are ye playing By the stranger’s blazing hearth; Forgetting, in your gladness, Your old home’s former mirth? _Are ye dancing? Are ye singing?_ _Are ye full of childish glee?_ _Or do your light hearts sadden_ _With the memory of me?_ Round whom, oh! gentle darlings, Do your young arms fondly twine, Does she press you to _her_ bosom Who hath taken you from mine? _Oh! boys, the twilight hour_ _Such a heavy time hath grown_,— It recalls with such deep anguish All I used to call my own,— That the harshest word that ever Was spoken to me there, Would be trivial—would be _welcome_— In this depth of my despair! Yet no! Despair shall sink not. While life and love remain,— Tho’ the weary struggle haunt me, And my prayer be made in vain: Tho’ at times my spirit fail me And the bitter tear-drops fall, _Tho’ my lot be hard and lonely,_ _Yet I hope—I hope thro’ all._”