Jane Cross Bell, better known by her assumed name of "Gertrude," is the daughter of the late James Bell, Esq., Advocate, and was born in Glasgow. Her first effusions, written in early youth, were published in the Greenock Advertiser, while her father for a short time resided in that town, as assessor to the Magistrates. To the pages of the Edinburgh Literary Journal she afterwards contributed numerous poetical compositions, and subsequently various articles in prose and verse to the Scottish Christian Herald, then under the able editorship of the Rev. Dr Gardner. In 1836, "Gertrude" published a small volume of tales and sketches, entitled, "The Piety of Daily Life;" and, in 1838, a duodecimo volume of lyric poetry, named, "April Hours." Her latest work, "Woman's History," appeared in 1848.
In July 1837, Miss Bell was married to her cousin, Mr J. B. Simpson, and has since resided chiefly in Glasgow. Amidst numerous domestic avocations in which she has latterly been involved, Mrs Simpson continues to devote a considerable portion of her time to literary pursuits. She is at present engaged in a poetical work of a more ambitious description than any she has yet offered to the public.
GENTLENESS.
Oh! the winning charm of gentleness, so beautiful to me,
'Tis this has bound my soul so long, so tenderly, to thee;
The gentle heart, like jewel bright, beneath the ocean blue,
In every look and tone of thine, still shining sweetly through!
What though the crowd with wonder bow, before great genius' fire,
And wit, with lightning flash, commands to reverence and admire;
'Tis gentleness alone that gains the tribute of our love,
And falls upon the ear, like dew on flowers, from heaven above!
Ah! many a day has pass'd since then, yet I remember well,
Once from my lips an angry thought, in hasty accents fell;
A word of wrath I utter'd, in a light and wayward mood—
Of wrath to thee, my earliest friend, the noble and the good!
No answering words were given for mine, but, calm and bright as now,
Thy speaking eyes a moment dwelt upon my ruffled brow,
And then a sweet, forgiving smile came o'er thy pensive face,
And thy hand was softly tender'd me, with melancholy grace.
An instant mute and motionless, before thee did I stand,
And gazed upon thy placid mien, thy smile, thy proffer'd hand—
Ah! ne'er could angel, sent to walk this earth of sinful men,
Look lovelier in his robes of light, than thou to me wert then!
I long'd to weep—I strove to speak—no words came from my tongue,
Then silently to thy embrace, I wildly, fondly sprung;
The sting of guilt, like lightning, struck to my awaken'd mind;
I could have borne to meet thy wrath—'twas death to see thee kind!
'Tis ever thus! when anger wins but anger in return,
A trifle grows a thing of weight, and fast the fire will burn;
But when reproachful words are still in mild forgiveness past,
The proudest soul will own his fault, and melt in tears at last!
O Gentleness! thy gentleness, so beautiful to me!
It will ever bind my heart in love and tenderness to thee;
I bless thee for all high-born thoughts, that fill that breast of thine,
But most, I bless thee for that gift of gentleness divine!
HE LOVED HER FOR HER MERRY EYE.
He loved her for her merry eye,
That, like the vesper star,
In evening's blue and deepening sky,
Shed light and joy afar!
He loved her for her golden hair,
That o'er her shoulders hung;
He loved her for her happy voice,
The music of her tongue.
He loved her for her airy form
Of animated grace;
He loved her for the light of soul,
That brighten'd in her face.
He loved her for her simple heart,
A shrine of gentle things;
He loved her for her sunny hopes,
Her gay imaginings.
But not for him that bosom beat,
Or glanced that merry eye,
Beneath whose diamond light he felt
It would be heaven to die.
He never told her of his love,
He breathed no prayer—no vow;
But sat in silence by her side,
And gazed upon her brow.
And when, at length, she pass'd away,
Another's smiling bride,
He made his home 'mid ocean's waves—
He died upon its tide.
LIFE AND DEATH.
To live in cities—and to join
The loud and busy throng,
Who press with mad and giddy haste,
In pleasure's chase along;
To yield the soul to fashion's rules,
Ambition's varied strife;
Borne like a leaf upon the stream—
Oh! no—this is not life!
To pass the calm and pleasant hours,
By wild wood, hill, and grove,
And find a heaven in solitude,
With one we deeply love;
To know the wealth of happiness,
That each to each can give,
And feel no power can sever us—
Ah! this it is to live!
It is not death, when on the couch
Of sickness we are laid,
With all our spirit wasted,
And the bloom of youth decay'd;
To feel the shadow dim our eyes,
And pant for failing breath;
Then break at length life's feeble hain—
Oh, no! this is not death!
To part from one beneath whose smiles
We long were used to dwell,
To hear the lips we love pronounce
A passionate farewell;
To catch the last too tender glance
Of an adoring eye,
And weep in solitude of heart—
Ah! this it is to die!
GOOD NIGHT.
Good night! the silver stars are clear,
On evening's placid brow;
We have been long together, love—
We must part now.
Good night! I never can forget
This long bright summer day,
We pass'd among the woods and streams,
Far, far away!
Good night! we have had happy smiles,
Fond dreams, and wishes true,
And holier thoughts and communings,
And weeping too.
Good night! perchance I ne'er may spend
Again so sweet a time,
Alone with Nature and with thee,
In my life's prime!
Good night! yet e'er we sever, love,
Take thou this faded flower,
And lay it next thy heart, against
Our meeting hour.
Good night! the silver stars are clear,
Thy homeward way to light;
Remember this long summer day—
Good night! good night!
