For thy cottage-hearths burning the stranger to greet,
For the soul that shines forth from thy children’s kind eyes.’
Mrs Hemans always spoke of this ‘land of her childhood, her home, and her dead,’ with interest and affection. When she sailed from its shore, she covered her face in her cloak, desiring her boys to tell her when the hills were out of sight, that she might then look up. She would often, too, refer to the pain she had suffered—in addition to the sorrow of parting from her kindred and friends, for the first time since her birth, to make actual acquaintance with the daily cares of life—upon taking leave of the simple and homely peasantry of the neighbourhood, by whom she was beloved with that old-fashioned heartiness which yet lingers in some of the nooks and remote places of England. Many of them rushed forward to touch the posts of the gate through which the poetess had passed; and when, three years afterwards, she paid a visit to St Asaph, came and wept over her, and entreated her to return and make her home among them again.”—Chorley’s Memorials of Mrs Hemans, p. 206-7.]
IMPROMPTU LINES,
ADDRESSED TO MISS F. A. L., ON RECEIVING FROM HER SOME FLOWERS WHEN CONFINED BY ILLNESS.
Ye tell me not of birds and bees,
Not of the summer’s murmuring trees,
Not of the streams and woodland bowers—
A sweeter tale is yours, fair flowers!
Glad tidings to my couch ye bring,