Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 64, No. 398, December 1848

Then the proud bosom of the strong man shook;
But tenderly his babe's fair mother laid
Her hand on his, and with a pleading look
Through tears half-quivering, o'er him bent and said,
"What grief, dear friend, hath made thy heart its prey,
That thou shouldst turn thee from our love away?

"It is too sad to see thee thus, my friend!
Mark'st thou the wonder on thy boy's fair brow,
Missing the smile from thine? Oh, cheer thee! bend
To his soft arms, unseal thy thoughts e'en now!
Thou dost not kindly to withhold the share
Of tried affection in thy secret care."

He looked up into that sweet earnest face,
But sternly, mournfully: not yet the band
Was loosened from his soul.

He then tells how the oppressor's envious eye "had been upon his heritage," and to-morrow eve might find him in chains. The blood leaves her cheek, and she leans back on the linden stem, but only for a moment; the free Alpine spirit wakes within her —

And she that ever through her home had moved
With the meek thoughtfulness and quiet smile
Of woman, calmly loving and beloved
And timid in her happiness the while,
Stood brightly forth, and steadfastly, that hour —
Her clear glance kindling into sudden power.

Ay, pale she stood, but with an eye of light,
And took her fair child to her holy breast,
And lifted her soft voice, that gathered might
As it found language: – "Are we thus oppressed?
Then must we rise upon our mountain-sod,
And man must arm, and woman call on God!

"I know what thou wouldst do; – and be it done!
Thy soul is darkened with its fears for me.
Trust me to heaven, my husband; this, thy son,
The babe whom I have borne thee, must be free!
And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearth
May well give strength – if aught be strong on earth.

"Thou hast been brooding o'er the silent dread
Of my desponding tears; now lift once more,
My hunter of the hills, thy stately head,
And let thine eagle glance my joy restore!
I can bear all but seeing thee subdued —
Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood.

"Go forth beside the waters, and along
The chamois' paths, and through the forests go;
And tell in burning words thy tale of wrong
To the brave hearts that midst the hamlets glow,
God shall be with thee, my beloved! – away!
Bless but thy child and leave me – I can pray!"

It is ever thus with all her women, – gentle, courageous, full of self-devotion, and, alas! of sorrow and suffering. This is her ideal of woman, from which she rarely departs – a heart, overflowing with tenderest affection – ill-requited – yet refusing to receive any earthly boon as a substitute for the returned affection it seeks. Fame is no compensation —

Away! to me, a woman, bring
Sweet waters from affection's spring.

Genius when she sings to Love is made to say —

They crown me with the glistening crown,
Borne from a deathless tree;
I hear the pealing music of renown —
O Love, forsake me not!
Mine were a lone dark lot,
Bereft of thee!
They tell me that my soul can throw
A glory o'er the earth;
From thee, from thee, is caught that golden glow!
Shed by thy gentle eyes,
It gives to flower and skies
A bright new birth!

    Genius singing to Love.
It is not often we find the superstitions of dark and ignorant ages dealt with in so gentle and agreeable a manner as by Mrs Hemans. She seizes, in common with others, the poetic aspect these present, but diffuses over them, at the same time, a refinement of sentiment gathered entirely from her own feelings. A subject which from another pencil would have been disagreeable and offensive to us, is made by her graceful touches to win upon our imagination. Witness the poem called The Wood Walk and Hymn; we will quote the commencement of it.

WOOD WALK AND HYMN

"Move along these shades
In gentleness of heart – with gentle hand
Touch – for there is a spirit in the woods."

    Wordsworth

FATHER – CHILD

Child.– There are the aspens with their silvery leaves
Trembling, for ever trembling; though the lime
And chestnut boughs, and these long arching sprays
Of eglantine, hang still, as if the wood
Were all one picture!

Father.– Hast thou heard, my boy,
The peasant's legend of that quivering tree?

Child.– No, father; doth he say the fairies dance
Amidst the branches?