and glorious aspirations—the proud consciousness of Being and Thinking—and above all, the irrepressible expectation of a still brighter, more beautiful, more high and noble world;—this, though a poor and feeble picture, is at least more like life than the other. O, a glorious heritage Life is! To live!—what ineffable meaning there is in that short expression!—to live! To be a part of never-ending Life! To be more immortal than worlds,—more eternal than the stars,—more indestructible than Nature,—more strong than Death:—to be a part of—to be joined to—the one great Everlasting Principle of Being:—what power, what glory, what majesty there is in the thought! Pain, sorrow, sin, evil, are these man's heritage and lot, then? No! Joy, Friendship, Affection, Hope—"this, this is Life;"—and that soul is not a true poet's soul which would seek to persuade us to the contrary.
Few writers are so picturesque as Mrs. Maclean. Her descriptions are perfect paintings, and often indeed give us a better idea of a scene than an actual representation of it. Some of her poetical illustrations of the pictures in Fisher's Drawing-Room Scrap-Book are as superior in intelligence to the plates as a living being is to a marble statue.
The following poem will give a good general idea of Mrs. Maclean's picturesque manner.
THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL.
And the muffled drum roll'd on the air,
Warriors with stately step were there;
On every arm was the black crape bound,
Every carbine was turn'd to the ground:
Solemn the sound of their measur'd tread,
As silent and slow they follow'd the dead.
The riderless horse was led in the rear,
There were white plumes waving over the bier,
Helmet and sword were laid on the pall,
For it was a Soldier's Funeral.
