heavy, the lightnings flash, the thunder breaks among the hills, rolls and gathers and grows, until
" Behold, yon bolt struck home,
And over ruined fields the storm hath come."
Now we have the phases of the soul, the shock and surprise of grief in the face of the world made desolate. Loneliness and despair for a space, and then, like stars in the night, the new births of the spirit, the wonderful outcoming from sorrow: the mild light of patience at first; hope and faith kindled afresh in the very jaws of evil ; the new meaning and worth of life beyond sorrow, beyond joy ; and finally duty, the holiest word of all, that leads at last to victory and peace. The poem rounds and completes itself with the close of " the long, rich day," and the release of
" The mystic winged and flickering butterfly,
A human soul, that drifts at liberty,
Ah ! who can tell to what strange paradise,
To what undreamed-of fields and lofty skies!
We have dwelt at some length upon this poem, which seems to us, in a certain sense, subjective and biographical; but upon closer analysis there is still another conclusion to arrive at. In "Epochs" we have, doubtless, the impress of a calamity brought very near to the writer, and profoundly working upon her sensibilities; not however by direct, but by reflex action, as it
