LUCY HOOPER.

A place where change ne'er cometh, and where death
Doth cast no shadow! yet the moonlight lieth
Softly in all thy still and shaded streets,
And the deep stars of midnight purely shine,
Bringing a thought of that far world where Love
Bindeth again his lost and treasured gems,
And in whose "many mansions" there may be
A home where change ne'er cometh, and where death
May leave no trace upon the pure in heart,
Who bend before their Father's throne in heaven!

In 1810, Miss Hooper published an Essay on Domestic Happiness, and a volume entitled Scenes from Real Life; and in these, as well as in other prose writings, are shown the sensibility and natural grace which are the charm of her poetry. It was about the same time that she wrote The Last Hours of a Young Poetess, a poem which has sometimes been referred to as an illustration of her own history.

The excellent Dr. John W. Francis, of whom with a slight variation we may use the language of Coleridge respecting Sir Humphrey Davy, that had he not become one of the first physicians he would have been among the most eminent literary men of his age, is admirably fitted, as well by his intimate observation of the influence of mental action upon health, as by his general professional skill and genial sympathies, to watch over and protect so fragile and delicate a being, happily attended Miss Hooper in her illness; and in a letter which, soon after her death, he addressed to Mr. Keese, the editor of her works, we have an interesting account of the close of her life:

"For a period of many years," he says, "the cultivation of her mind was little interrupted; and though her corporeal suffering was often an obstacle to continuous effort, she sustained with unabated ardor her studies in the ancient and modern languages, in polite literature, in botany, and in several of the other branches of natural science. Doubtless the extent of her reading and her acquisitions in varied knowledge contributed to cherish in her family the delusive expectation that her constitution was destined for a longer career of active exertion than fell to her lot. Mental effort may in some instances protract the duration of those energies which at length it consumes. But the hopes cherished by her too ardent friends never for a moment deceived herself. For the last four months of her existence, her physical powers were yielding to the combined influence

of disease and intellectual action; and after
a few days of aggravated suffering, painful
evidences were manifest of the fatality which
was impending. Her disorder was pulmo-
nary consumption; and the insidious peculi-
arities of that treacherous malady were con-
spicuous in her case in an eminent degree.
Within three days of her dissolution she was
occupied, with intervals of serious reflection,
in her literary labors, and conversed freely
on her projected plan of a series of moral
tales, her book on flowers, and other works.
Her life and habits of thought had long pre-
pared her for the final event: severe exam-
ination and inquiry contributed to strengthen
the consolation of religion. In her death,
which was without pain and without a strug-
gle, she bequeathed to her friends triumphant
evidences of that hope which animates the
expiring Christian."

She died in Brooklyn, on the first of August, 1841. I happened at this time to be in Boston, and a few days after, Mr. Whittier, who was one of her intimate friends, sent me from his place in Amesbury the following beautiful and touching tribute to her memory, which I had published in one of the papers of that city:

66

"ON THE DEATH OF LUCY HOOPER.

They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead—
That all of thee we loved and cherished
Has with thy summer roses perished;
And left, as its young beauty fled,
An ashen memory in its stead!—
Cold twilight of a parted day.
That true and loving heart-that gift
Of a mind earnest, clear, profound,
Bestowing, with a glad unthrift,

Its sunny light on all around,
Affinities which only could
Cleave to the beautiful and good--

And sympathies which found no rest
Save with the loveliest and the best-
Of them, of thee, remains there naught
But sorrow in the mourner's breast-
A shadow in the land of Thought?
"No! Even my weak and trembling faith
Can lift for thee the veil which doubt
And human fear have drawn about
The all-awaiting scene of death.
Even as thou wast I see thee still;
And, save the absence of all ill,
And pain, and weariness, which here
Summoned the sigh or wrung the tea
The same as when two summers back,
Beside our childhood's Merrimack,
I saw thy dark eye wander o'er
Stream, sunny upland, rocky shore,
And heard thy low, soft voice alone
Midst lapse of waters, and the tone

Of sere leaves by the west-wind blown.
There's not a charm of soul or brow,

Of all we knew and loved in thee,
But lives in ho'ier beauty now,

Baptized in immortality!
Not mine the sad and freezing dream
Of souls that with their earthly mould
Cast off the loves and joys of old-
Unbodied-like a pale moonbeam,

As pure, as passionless, and cold;
Nor mine the hope of Indra's son,
Of slumbering in oblivion's rest,
Life's myriads blending into one,
In blank annihilation blest;
Dust-atoms of the infinite-
Sparks scattered from the central light,
And winning back, through mortal pain,
Their old unconsciousness again!—
No! I have friends in spirit-land,
Not shadows in a shadowy band,

Not others, but themselves, are they.
And still I think of them the same
As when the Master's summons came;
Their change, the holy morn-light breaking
Upon the dream-worn sleeper, waking—

A change from twilight into day!
They've laid thee midst the household graves,
Where father, brother, sister, lie;
Below thee sweep the dark blue waves,
Above thee bends the summer sky;
Thy own loved church in sadness read
Her solemn ritual o'er thy head,

And blessed and hallowed with her prayer
The turf laid lightly o'er thee there:
That church, whose rites and liturgy,
Sublime and old, were truth to thee,
Undoubted, to thy bosom taken
As symbols of a faith unshaken.
Even I, of simpler views, could feel
The beauty of thy trust and zeal;
And, owning not thy creed, could see
How lifelike it must seem to thee,
And how thy fervent heart had thrown
O'er all a coloring of its own,
And kindled up intense and warm
A life in every rite and form;
As, when on Chebar's banks of old
The Hebrew's gorgeous vision rolled,
A spirit filled the vast machine-
A life within the wheels' was seen!
"Farewell!-a little time, and we
Who knew thee well, and loved thee here,
One after one shall follow thee,

As pilgrims through the gate of Fear
Which opens on Eternity.

Yet we shall cherish not the less

All that is left our hearts meanwhile;
The memory of thy loveliness

Shall round our weary pathway smile,
Like moonlight, when the sun has set,
A sweet and tender radiance yet.
Thoughts of thy clear-eyed sense of duty,

Thy generous scorn of all things wrong;
The truth, the strength, the graceful beauty,
Which blended in thy song;

All lovely things by thee beloved

Shall whisper to our hearts of thee: These green hills where thy childhood roved;

Yon river winding to the sea;

The sunset light of Autumn eves

Reflecting on the deep, still floods;
Cloud, crimson sky, and trembling leaves

Of rainbow-tinted woods-
These in our view shall henceforth take
A tenderer meaning for thy sake,
And all thou lovedst of earth and sky
Seem sacred to thy memory."

The general regret at her death was shown in many such feeling tributes. Another is quoted here, not so much for its own beauty, as for the opinions it embodies of one of our most accomplished critics respecting her ge nius and character:

ON THE DEATH OF MISS LUCY HOOPER
BY H. T. TUCKERMAN.

"And thou art gone! sweet daughter of the lyre,
Whose strains we hoped to hear thee waken long;
Gone as the stars in morning's light expire,
Gone like the rapture of a passing song;
Gone from a circle who thy gifts have cherished,
With genial fondness and devoted care,
Whose dearest hopes with thee have sadly perished,
And now can find no solace but in prayer;
Prayer to be like thee, in so meekly bearing
Both joy and sorrow from thy Maker's hand;
Prayer to put on the white robes thou art wearing,
And join thy anthem in the better land."

Miss Hooper's life was singularly indus trious, considering the feebleness of her constitution. She seemed to be sensible that her abilities were a trust which imposed respon sibilities, and she never suffered time to pass unimproved. Some of her last days were devoted to the preparation of a work entitled The Poetry of Flowers, which was published soon after her death. She had in anticipa tion also another work in prose similar to her Scenes from Domestic Life, and her inclination had led her to undertake a long poem, upon some historical subject. It is to be regretted that death prevented this project from being realized.

In 1842 Mr. John Keese collected and arranged the Literary Remains of Miss Hooper, which he published with a graceful and affectionate memoir of her life and genius. No one knew her more intimately, and there are few whose appreciation of personal character and poetical merit would have enabled them so well to perform this mournfully pleas ing duty. In the present year (1848) a new and considerably enlarged edition of her Poetical Works has appeared from the press of

Mr. D. Fanshaw.

LUCY HOOPER.

THE SUMMONS OF DEATH.*

A VOICE is on mine ear-a solemn voice:
I come, I come, it calls me to my rest;
Faint not my yearning heart, rejoice, rejoice,

Soon shalt thou reach the gardens of the blest:
On the bright waters there, the living streams,
Soon shalt thou launch in peace thy weary bark,
Waked by rude waves no more from gentle dreams,
Sadly to feel that earth to thee is dark-
Not bright as once; oh vain, vain memories, cease,
I cast your burden down-I strive for peace.
A voice is on mine ear-a welcome tone:
I hear its summons in a stranger land,

It calls me hence, to die amid mine own,
Where first my forehead, by the wild breeze fanned,
Lost the fair tracery of youth, and wore
A deeper signet, in my manhood's prime-
To lay me down with those who wake no more,
It calls me those I loved, their couch be mine:
I hear sweet voices from my childhood's home,
I come!
And from my father's grave-I come,
Blest be the warning sound: my mother's eyes
Dwell on my memory yet, her parting tears,
And from the grave where my young sister lies,
Who perished in the glory of her years,
I hear a gentle call," Return, return!"

So be it let me greet the village spires
Once more. I come 't is wilding youth may spurn,
When far, the burial-places of his sires;
But oh, when strength is gone, and hope is past,
There turns the wearied man his thoughts at last.
So do we change! I hear a warning tone-
Yea, I, whose thoughts were all of by past times,
Of ancient glories, and from visions lone,
I come to list once more the sabbath chimes
Of my own home-to feel the gentle air
Steal o'er my brow again-to greet the sun
In the old places where he shone so fair,

The while each wandering brook in music ran,
Answering to Youth's sweet thoughts, but all are
I come, my home, I come to join thy dead! [fled

I heed the warning voice: oh, spurn me not,
My early friends; let the bruised heart go free:
Mine were high fancies, but a wayward lot
Hath made my youthful dreams in sadness flee;
Then chide not, I would linger yet awhile,
Thinking o'er wasted hours, a weary train,
Cheered by the moon's soft light, the sun's glad smile,
Watching the blue sky o'er my path of pain,
Waiting my summons: whose shall be the eye
To glance unkindly—I have come to die!
Sweet words to die! oh pleasant, pleasant sounds,
What bright revealings to my heart they bring;

And should they ask the cause of my return. I will tell them that a man may go far and tarry long away, if his health be good and his hopes high, but that when flesh and spirit begin to fail. he remembers his birthplace and the old burial ground, and hears a voice calling him to Come home to his father and mother. They will know by my wasted frame and feeble step, that I have heard the summons and obeyed; and, the first greetings over, they will let me walk among them unnoticed, and linger in the sunshine while I may, and steal into my grave in peace. Journal of a Solitary Man.

What melody, unheard in earth's dull rounds,
And floating from the land of glorious Spring-
The eternal home! my weary thoughts revive,
Fresh flowers my mind puts forth, and buds of love,
Gentle and kindly thoughts for all that live,
Fanned by soft breezes from the world above:
And passing not, I hasten to my rest—
Again, oh gentle summons, thou art blest!

"TIME, FAITH, ENERGY."*

HIGH words and hopeful!-fold them to thy heart.
Time, Faith, and Energy, are gifts sublime;
If thy lone bark the threatening waves surround,
Make them of all thy silent thoughts a part.
When thou wouldst cast thy pilgrim staff away,
Breathe to thy soul their high, mysterious sound,
And faint not in the noontide of thy day:
Wait thou for Time!

Wait thou for Time: the slow-unfolding flower
Chides man's impatient haste with long delay;
The harvest ripening in the autumnal sun;
The golden fruit of Suffering's weighty power
Within the soul-like soft bells' silvery chime
Repeat the tones, if fame may not be won,
Or if the heart where thou shouldst find a shrine,
Breathe forth no blessing on thy lonely way-
Wait thou for Time: it hath a sorcerer's power
To dim life's mockeries that gayly shine,
To lift the veil of seeming from the real,
Bring to thy soul a rich or fearful dower,
Write golden tracery on the sands of life,
And raise the drooping heart from scenes ideal
To a high purpose in the world of strife:
Wait thou for Time!

Yea, wait for Time, but to thy heart take Faith,
Soft beacon-light upon a stormy sea;

A mantle for the pure in heart, to pass
Through a dim world, untouched by living death,
A cheerful watcher through the spirit's night,

Soothing the grief from which she may not flee-
A herald of glad news-a seraph bright,

Pointing to sheltering havens yet to be.
Yea, Faith and Time-and thou that through the
Of the lone night hast nerved the feeble hand, [hour
Kindled the weary heart with sudden fire,
Gifted the drooping soul with living power,
Immortal Energy! shalt thou not be
While the old tales our wayward thoughts inspire,
Linked with each vision of high destiny,

Till on the fadeless borders of that land
Where all is known we find our certain way,
And lose ye, mid its pure, effulgent light?
Kind ministers, who cheered us in our gloom,
Seraphs who lightened griefs with guiding ray,
Whispering through tears of cloudless glory dawn-
[ing-
Say, in the gardens of eternal bloom
Will not our hearts, when breaks the cloudless
morning,

ing.

Joy that ye led us through the drooping night!

Suggested by a passage in Bulwer's Night and M

LUCY HOOPER.

LAST HOURS OF A YOUNG POETESS.

"Alas! our young affections run to waste
Or water but the desert, whence arise

But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste,
Rank at the core, but tempting to the eves,
Flowers whose wild odors breathe but agonies,
And trees whose gums are poison; such the fruits
Which spring beneath her steps, as Passion fies
O'er the wild wilderness, and vainly pants

For some celestial fruit, forbidden to our wants!"-Byron.

Tanow up the window! that the earnest eyes
Of the young devotee at Nature's shrine
May catch a last glimpse of this breathing world
From which she is removing.

Men will say
This is an early death, and they will write
The record of her few and changeful years
With wonder on the marble, and then turn
Away with thoughtful brows from the green sod,
Yet pass to daily business, for the griefs
That press on busy spirits may not turn
Their steps aside from the worn paths of life,
Or bear upon the memory when the quick
And selfish course of daily care sweeps by.
Yet, when they speak of that lost one, 't will be
With tones of passionate marvel, for they watched
Her bright career as they would watch a star
Of dazzling brilliancy, and mourn to see
Its glory quenched, and wonder while ye mourned
How the thick pall of darkness could be thrown
O'er such a radiant thing.

Is this the end

Of all thy glorious visions, young Estelle?
Hath thy last hours drawn on, and will thy life
Pass by as quickly as the perfumed breath
Of some fair flower upon the zephyr's wings?
And will they lay thee in the quiet grave,
And never know how fervently thy heart
Panted for its repose? Oh! let the peace
Of this sweet hour be hers; let her gaze forth
Now on the face of Nature for the last,
While the bright sunbeam trembles in the air
Of the meek-coming twilight: it will soothe
Her spirit as a spell, and waken up
Impassioned thoughts, and kindle burning dreams,
And call back glorious visions.

Marvel not
To see her color pass, and view the tears
Fast gathering to her eyes, and see her bend
In very weakness at the fearful shrine
Of Memory, when the glory of the past
Gaze not on her now:

Is

gone for ever.

Her spirit is a delicate instrument,
Nor can ye know its measure.
That wearied one to the bright, gifted girl,
How unlike
Who knelt a worshipper at the deep shrine
Of Poetry, and, mid the fairest things,
Pined for lone solitude-to read the clouds
With none to watch her, and dream pleasant things
Of after-life, and see in every flower
The mysteries of Nature, and behold
In every star the herald and the sign
Of immortality, till she almost shrank
To feel the secret and expanding might

Of her own mind! and thus amid the flowers
Of a glad home grew beautiful. Away
With praises upon Time! with hollow tones

That tell the blessedness of after-years!
They take the fragrance from the soul; they rob
Life of its gloss, its poetry, its charin,
Till the heart sickens, and the mental wing
Droops wearily and thus it was with her,
The gifted and the lovely. Oh, how much
The world will envy those whose hearts are filled
With secret or unchanging grief, if fame
Or outward splendor gilds them! Who among
The throngs that sung thy praises, young Estelle,
Or crowned thy brow with laurels, ever recked
That, wearier of thy chaplet than the slave
May be with daily toil, thy hand would cast
The laurel by with loathing, but the pride
Of woman's heart withheld thee!

Oh, how praise
Falls on the sorrowing mind; how cold the voice
Of Flattery, when the spirit is bowed down
Before its mockery, and the heart is sick;
Praise for the gift of genius-for the grace
Of outward form-when the soul pines to hear
One kindly tone and true! What bitter jest
It maketh of the enthusiast, to whom
One star alone can shine, one voice be heard
In tones of blessedness, to know that crowds
Of earth's light-hearted ones are treasuring up
Against their day of sorrow the deep words
Of wretchedness and misery which burst
From an o'erburdened spirit, and that minds
Which may not rise to heaven on the wings
Of an inspired fancy, yet can list
With raptured ear to the ethereal dreams
Of a high-soaring genius. For this end
Didst thou seek fame, Estelle; and hast thou
The atmosphere of poetry, till life
[breathed
With its dull toil grew wearisome and lone?.....

Her brow grew quickly pale, and murmured words
That not in life dwelt on that gentle lip,
Are spoken in the recklessness of death.
They tell of early dreams of cherished hopes
That faded into bitterness ere Fame
Became the spirit's idol, of lost tones
Of music, and of well-remembered words
That thrill the spirit yet. Again it comes,
That half-reproachful voice that she hath spent
Her life at Passion's shrine, and patient there
Hath sacrificed, and offered incense to
An absent idol-that she might not see,
Even in death-and then again the strength
Of a high soul sustains her, and she joys,
Yea, triumphs in her fame, that he may hear
Her name with honor, when the dark shades fall
Around her, and she sleeps in still repose:
If some faint tone should reach him at the last
Of her devotedness, he will not spurn
The memory from him, but his soul may thrill
To think of her, the fervent-hearted girl,
Who turned from flattering tones, and idly cast
The treasures of her spirit on the winds,
And found no answering voice!

Then prayed for death,
Since life's sweet spells had vanished, and her hopes
Had melted in thin air: and laying down
Her head upon her pillow, sought her rest,
And thought to meet him in the land of dreams!

THE TURQUOISE RING."

THE turquoise ring! 'twas a gift of power,
Guarding her heart in that weary hour,
As a magic spell, as a gem of light,
As a pure, pure star amidst clouds of night,
Bringing back to the pale, pale cheek its bloom,
Strengthening the heart in that hour of doom;
There was hope, there was trust with its living hue,
The gem was bright, and the lover true,

As a sign to her heart, as a sign to her eye,
The one bright gleam of a troubled sky.
The turquoise ring! oh, the olden time
Hath many a magic tale and sign,

Bright gifts of treasure on land and on sea,
But naught for the heart or the memory;
For what might the fairy lamp of old
Yield to its owner but gems and gold?
And to her who sat in that lonely hall
The turquoise ring was worth them all;
For the heart hath a dearer wealth than lies
In the earth's wide halls and argosies;

And its hopes are more precious than stores of gold
When richest and rarest by miser told,

For what had been gems that brightly shone,
To her who sat in her grief alone?

Ob, the turquoise ring had a spell of power!
This was a gift for the weary hour,
Linking the future to all the past,
Breathing of moments too bright to last,
Till they came in the light of their bliss,
To soothe, to gladden an hour like this.
Oh! Love hath wings, they have said who knew,
And that Love hath wings is a story true,
But there lingers a bloom on his early hours,
When his wings are folded mid opening flowers,
When the streams are bright, and the sky is fair,
And the hearts too happy that trust him there;
There lingers a bloom, and there rests a glow,
A charm that the earth not again may know!
And when from that resting-place he flies,
Oh! linked with a thousand memories,
Each bud and each leaf by our fond tears wet,
May breathe of his sweetness and beauty yet!
So with the past, and its holy love-
So with its hopes, that soared above-
With the visions that came to her nightly rest,
Was the turquoise ring to her finger pressed:
Oh! beautiful to her its light,
Could she forget that pleasant night
When first her finger's slender round
Was with the golden circlet bound,
And blushed she not to see it shine,
But at the low tone, "Love, be mine!"
Since then, since then, unchanged its hue,
Her hope, her trust, alike were true;
But pale at times that cheek so bright,
And dimmed those eyes of living light,
For dreams were hers of pain and dread,

*In Miss Martineau's novel of Deerbrook, the heroine is made to preserve with great care a turquoise ring, which her lover had given her in the early days of their artachment, and during a long period of doubt and es trangement, to believe that while its hues continued undimmed, his faith remained to her unbroken. So poetic and fervent a belief met with its appropriate reward: the turquoise ring remained bright, and the lover returned.

Yet still the ring its lustre shed;
They met and parted, as of yore
Fond hearts have met, and chilled before,
And coldness, sadness, fear, had been
Like cloud upon the sunny scene.

Yet woman's love will always strive,
And woman's faith through all things live,
And beautiful the maiden's truth,
And beautiful her trusting youth;
Through all, through all, the turquoise ring
A hope, a dream, a joy could bring;
And still, if clear and bright its hue,
Her faith was firm, her lover true!

Oh, gift of power! it brought at last
A bright, bright future for the past!
Oh, gift of power! that cheek once more
Wore the rich bloom that blushed of yore!
Oh, gift of power! who would not sing-
For me, for me, the turquoise ring;
For me, for me, when living faith
Faints in a world of change and death;
When sick with fear the heart may be,
And sad, oh! sad the memory;
When dimly, dimly, dimly glow
The hopes, the trusts, that c.ing below-
Then give me, give the turquoise ring,
Or the pure faith, a better thing!"

GIVE ME ARMOR OF PROOF.
GIVE me armor of proof, I must ride to the plain;
Give me armor of proof, ere the trump sound again:
To the halls of my childhood no more am I known,
And the nettle must rise where the myrtle hath
Till the conflict is over, the battle is past, [blown!
Give me armor of proof-I am true to the last!
Give me armor of proof, bring me helmet and spear;
Away! shall the warrior's cheek own a tear?
Bring the steel of Milan-'tis the firmest and best,
And bind o'er my bosom its closely-linked vest,
Where the head of a loved one in fondness hath lain,
Whose tears fell at parting like warm summer rain!
Give me armor of proof: I have torn from my heart
Each soft tie and true that forbade me to part;
Bring the sword of Damascus-its blade cold and
bright,

That bends not in conflict, but gleams in the fight;
And stay-let me fasten yon scarf on my breast,
Love's light pledge and true-I will answer the rest!
Give me armor of proof: shall the cry be in vain,
When to life's sternest conflicts we rush forth

amain?

The knight clad in armor the battle may bide,
But wo to the heedless when bendeth the tried,
And wo to youth's morn, when we rode forth alone,
To the conflict unguarded, its gladness hath flown!
Give us armor of proof-our hopes were all high;
But they passed like the meteor lights from the sky;
Our hearts' trust was firm, but Life's waves swept