In a very general point of view, the intellectual history of Mrs Hemans’ mind may be divided into two distinct and separate eras--the first of which may be termed the _classical_, and comprehends the productions of her pen, from “The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy,” and “Modern Greece,” down to the “Historical Scenes,” and the “Translations from Camoens;” and the last, the _romantic_, which commences with “The Forest Sanctuary,” and includes “The Records of Woman,” together with nearly all her later efforts. In regard to excellence, there can be little doubt that the last section as far transcends the first as that does the merely Juvenile Poems now given, and which certainly appear to us to exhibit occasional scintillations of the brightness which followed. Even after the early poetical attempts of Cowley and Pope, of Chatterton, Kirke White, and Byron, these immature outpourings of sentiment and description may be read with an interest which diminishes not by comparison.] THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. [“The French, who in every invasion have been the scourge of Italy, and have rivalled or rather surpassed the rapacity of the Goths and Vandals, laid their sacrilegious hands on the unparalleled collection of the Vatican, tore its masterpieces from their pedestals, and, dragging them from their temples of marble, transported them to Paris, and consigned them to the dull sullen halls, or rather stables, of the Louvre.... But the joy of discovery was short, and the triumph of taste transitory.”--Eustace’s _Classical Tour through Italy_, vol. ii. p. 60.] “Italia, Italia! O tu cui die la sorte Dono infelice di bellezza, ond’ hai Funesta dote d’infiniti guai, Che’n fronte scritte per gran doglia porte; Deh, fossi tu men bella, o almen piu forte.” Filicaja. Land of departed fame! whose classic plains Have proudly echo’d to immortal strains; Whose hallow’d soil hath given the great and brave, Day-stars of life, a birth-place and a grave; Home of the Arts! where glory’s faded smile Sheds lingering light o’er many a mouldering pile; Proud wreck of vanish’d power, of splendour fled, Majestic temple of the mighty dead! Whose grandeur, yet contending with decay, Gleams through the twilight of thy glorious day; Though dimm’d thy brightness, riveted thy chain, Yet, fallen Italy! rejoice again! Lost, lovely realm! once more ’tis thine to gaze On the rich relics of sublimer days.