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MARY E. HEWITT. 

MARY ELIZABETH MOORE was born in Malden, Massachusetts, a rural village not far from Boston. Her father was a former, a man of cultivation and refinement. Her mother (a descendant of an old and honourable family in Kent, England,) was left a widow of an early age; and, that she might have better advantages for the education of her children, immediately removed to Boston. In this city Miss Moore resided until her marriage with Mr. James L. Hewitt of New York, (well-known as an extensive publisher of music,) which has been her home ever since. In 1846, a selection of her poems was published, under the title of Songs of our Land, an elegant little book containing many choice strains of genuine poetry. For several years Mrs. Hewitt has contributed to the periodical literature of the day. Her thoughts are lofty and majestic; her taste correct and classic; her utterance always clear and strong, yet delicately sweet. The following poems are a fair specimen of her talent, and show that her chief characteristic is a concentrated intensity of passion. 


LAMENT OF JOSEPHINE. 

"They parted as all lovers part - 
She with her wrong'd and breaking heart; 
But he, rejoicing he is free,
Bounds like the captive from his chain, 
And willfully believing she 
Hath found her liberty again." - L. E. L. 

THE EMPRESS! - What's to me the empty name!
This regal state - this glittering pageant-life?
A tinsell'd cheat! - Am I not crown'd with shame?
Shorn of my glorious name, Napoleon's Wife!
And shroud with veil of pomp my breaking heart.
                                       (342)


MARY E. HEWETT.              343

"Tis mockery! - thought is with the days ere thou,
Seeking the world's love, unto mine grew cold -
Ere yet the diadem entwined my brow,
Tightening around my brain its serpent fold -
When each quick life-pulse throbbed, unschool'd of art,
When my wide empire was Napoleon's heart!

My spirit quails before this loneliness -
Why did no warning thought within me rise,
Telling thy hand would stay its fond caress
To wreathe the victim for the sacrifice!
That joy, the dove so to my bosom prest,
Would change to this keen vulture at my breast!

Parted forever! - who hath dared make twain
those He had join'd? - the nation's mighty voice!
And thou hast bounded forward from thy chain,
Like the freed captive, - therefore, heart! rejoice
Above the ashes of thy hopes, that he
Hath o'er their ruin leapt to liberty!


ALONE.
"Seul, cherchant dans L'espace un point qui me reponde."

There likes a deep and sealéd well
Within yon leafy forest hid;
Whose pent and lonely waters swell,
Its confines chill and drear amid.

It hears the birds on every spray
Thrill forth melodious notes of love;
It feels the warm sun's seldom ray
Glance on the stone its wave above.

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 15:02:34